X 


i 

i  R 

>  8 

I  % 

I  % 


BOOK  CARD 

Please  keep  this  card  in 
book  pocket 


S 


cd  e 

en  e 

en  k 

en  « 

en  e 

en  s 

en  e 

en  £ 

en  k 

en  e 

en  s 

en  s 

en  5 

en  % 

en  s 

en  s 

en  3 

en  3 

en  s 

en  8 

en  a 

en  s 

en  & 

en  » 

en  a 

en  s 

en  s 

en  a 

en  s 

en  a 

en  9 

en  9 

en  & 

!TK  $ 

en  9 

en  s 

en  9 

C  9 

THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


PS3531 
.0  936 
W48 
1925 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


JUL  2  21!)9& 


44^ 


___ 


JUL  4C 

.    ■ 


OCT 


Wt 


43- 


2  9  2009 


2  5  Z009 


WHITHER 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/whitheOOpowe 


WHITHER 


BY 


DAWN  POWELL 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  ! 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyricht,  1925 

By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE    MURRAY    PRINTINC    COMPANY 

CAMBRIDGE,     MASS. 

THE  BOSTON   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
CAMBRIDCE,    MASS. 


WHITHER 


WHITHER 


CHAPTER  I 

"And  here  in  the  most  delightful  part  of  the 
house,  my  dear,  with  the  river  breeze  and  all,  is  a 
room — double,  of  course;  one  could  not  expect  a 
single  for  the  money! — for  fifteen  dollars.  That 
includes  dinner  and  breakfast,  mind  you — lovely 
hot  rolls  and  coffee  with  one's  own  choice  of  eggs 
or  cereal!  And  such  a  charming  girl  occupying 
the  other  bed  in  the  room!  So  lovely!  Theat- 
rical, you  know.  But  a  charming  girl.  Perfectly 
charming." 

"I'll  take  it,"  briefly  interrupted  the  girl  in  the 
brown  suit.  A  bit  shabby,  but — ah — nice,  Mrs. 
Home  decided. 

Mrs.  Home,  taken  aback  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  deal,  sat  down  sharply  in  a  green  wicker 
rocker  by  the  pink-cretonned  court  window. 

"Well,  that's  that,"  she  sighed.  She  stiffened 
visibly,  a  frown  on  her  forehead,  and  her  ears 
alert. 

The  girl  in  the  brown  suit — she  must  be 
around  twenty-one  or  so  and  probably  the  clever 
sort! — listened  too.    There  was  plainly  a  sound 

3 


4  WHITHER 

of  running  water  in  the  adjoining  lavatory.  Mrs. 
Home  compressed  her  lips  and  rose. 

"It's  that  Maisie  Colburn,"  she  said  irritat- 
edly,  a  deepening  scowl  on  her  highly  colored 
face.  "She  always  leaves  it  running  and  then 
dashes  off.  She's  to  be  your  neighbor,  Miss — 
Miss " 

"Bourne — Zoe  Bourne,"  supplied  the  girl. 
She  had  good  eyes,  but  heavens!  Thin!  That 
nervous,  restless,  eager,  thin  sort. 

"Bourne.  What  a  lovely  name!  Zoe  Bourne. 
Yes,  you  will  probably  find  Maisie  a  trial.  She 
will  share  the  lavatory  with  you.  It  connects 
the  two  rooms,  you  see.     She  leaves  stockings 

soaking  in  it  for  days.     She "    Here  Mrs. 

Home's  frown  lifted,  and  a  fixed  smile  came  to 
her  lips.  Zoe  Bourne  followed  her  gaze  to  the 
door  where  a  sullen  young  negress  stood,  broom 
in  hand. 

"Yes,  Clematia,  what  is  it?"  Mrs.  Home's 
voice  was  solicitous,  almost  tender. 

"Mrs.  Home,  I  won't  stand  for  no  orders 
from  them  girls  on  the  third  floor.  First  Miss 
Robertson,  she  say  for  me  to  clean  her  room 
decent,  and  then " 

"Just  a  minute,  Clematia.  We'll  talk  it  all 
over  in  the  kitchen." 

Mrs.  Home  moved  out  heavily  but  with  a 
certain  dignity.  She  remembered  the  new  lodger 
when  she  reached  the  door  and  flashed  a  brilliant 
smile  over  her  shoulder.    She  even  noted  that 


WHITHER  5 

the  brown  coat  was  off  now — such  a  shabby 
thing! — and  the  girl  was  sitting  on  the  bed. 

"Dinner  at  six,  my  dear,  and  please — please 
be  on  time.  It  upsets  Clematia  so  to  have  the 
girls  late." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a  soothing,  clucking 
murmur  as  she  led  her  temperamental  cook  down 
the  hall.  She  left  in  the  room  a  suggestion  of 
scented  soap  and  vigorous  perfume,  which  Zoe 
found  oddly  pleasant. 

Zoe  sat  quite  still  on  the  bed  after  Mrs.  Home 
had  left.  She  was  a  slender,  brown,  elfin  thing, 
with  slanting  brown  eyes  and  sooty  lashes.  Her 
hair,  black  and  coarse  as  an  Indian's,  was  cut 
short  and  clung  in  straggly  wisps  to  her  head. 
Zoe  had  bobbed  it  herself  only  the  day  before 
she  came  to  New  York.  She  had  been  a  little 
disappointed  in  the  result.  When  it  had  been 
long  and  done  up  in  a  more  or  less  tidy  knot  at 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  she  had  looked  like  an 
earnest  young  student  or  an  assistant  librarian. 
Bobbing  it,  she  had  thought  to  appear  unaca- 
demic — even  modish,  whereas  she  had  looked 
merely  immature.  Still,  there  was  an  inner  feel- 
ing of  tolerant  sophistication  which  short  hair 
gave  one,  and  Zoe  was  glad,  on  the  whole,  that 
she  had  bobbed  hers.  It  was  the  suitable  gesture 
for  a  girl  who  was  breaking  off  with  her  family 
and  all  the  stupidities  which  Albon  represented, 
for  a  career  in  New  York. 

New  York! 


6  WHITHER 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  she  was  truly  here 
at  last.  Back  in  Albon  at  this  moment  her 
father  and  Tessie — Tessie  was  her  stepmother — 
were  continuing  the  maddening  nagging  they 
had  begun  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Per- 
haps Fred  had  just  come  in  from  the  store  and 
they  were  both  scolding  him  for  going  around 
with  that  cheap  factory  girl.  Fred  was  sullen 
because  he  dared  not  tell  them  he  was  going  to 
marry  the  girl  next  month.  He  had  told  Zoe 
and  Zoe  had  shrugged  silently.  It  was  just  an- 
other thing  to  get  away  from.  Harriet  was 
hanging  over  the  telephone,  exchanging  giggling 
gossip  with  some  other  high-school  girl,  prob- 
ably the  Paine  girl,  whose  mother  lived  with  that 
actor.  And  walling  them  all  in  together  was  the 
cruel,  incessant  nagging  of  Tessie  and  Father — 
plunging  their  words  into  each  other  as  a  vulture 
plunges  its  beak  into  the  quivering  entrails  of  an 
animal. 

Zoe  jumped  up  from  the  bed  to  break  the 
memory. 

New  York! 

She  did  not  have  over  twenty  dollars  in  the 
world,  so  she'd  have  to  make  good  at  once.  Fif- 
teen dollars  was  a  lot  of  money  to  spend  for  one's 
board  and  lodging,  even  if  there  was  a  river 
breeze  and  a  charming  roommate.  Fifteen  dol- 
lars a  week. 

Zoe's  eyes  took  in  the  room  slowly. 

It  was  a  nice  room.    There  were  two  green 


WHITHER  7 

wicker  rockers,  one  at  each  side  of  the  little  oak 
desk  at  the  window.  The  cretonne  hangings  at 
the  window  and  the  drapes  over  the  chairs  and 
bed  were  somewhat  faded  but  still  gallant. 
There  were  two  long  mirrors,  too,  each  in  a 
closet  door.  And  a  semi-private  lavatory  was 
practically  as  good  as  a  private  bath,  Zoe 
reflected. 

The  roommate  was  theatrical  and  charming. 
Zoe  wondered  whether  they  would  be  friends. 
She  had  been  frightfully  lonesome  in  Albon.  If 
one  was  respectable  one  had  to  belong  to  the 
crowd  of  respectable  girls,  that  is  to  say  girls 
whose  fathers  were  able  to  send  their  children  to 
college.  And  respectable,  jolly  girls  were  so 
fundamentally  dumb.  Yes,  Zoe  hoped  her  room- 
mate would  not  be  the  wholesome  sort. 

She  went  to  the  large  oak  dresser  and  studied 
the  belongings  of  her  absent  roommate.  Fat 
jars  of  cold  cream,  slender  vials  of  perfume  and 
scented  lotions  and  liquid  powder,  a  bowl  of 
Japanese  crushed  flowers,  a  flat  crystal  rouge- 
pot,  a  silver-framed  photograph  of  a  lieutenant 
in  the  marines,  a  wood-framed,  oval  snapshot  of 
a  young  man  in  a  bathing  suit,  a  gray-enameled 
toilet  set,  a  box  of  matches. 

Zoe  turned  around  and  dropped  to  the  bed 
again.  She  yawned.  The  long  train  journey 
had  been  tiring  and  she  wanted  her  dinner,  too. 
She  kicked  off  her  square  little  walking  pumps 
and  wondered  idly  whether  she  had  time  to  take 


8  WHITHER 

a  bath  before  dinner.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  a  girl  came  in. 

She  was  tall,  with  a  limp,  luscious  slenderness, 
and  regally  poised  for  the  twenty-five  years  that 
she  appeared  to  own.  Her  hat  was  off  and 
Zoe's  eyes  were  held  by  the  mass  of  short,  feath- 
ery amber  curls  that  framed  the  exquisite  face. 
Her  eyes  were  amber,  too,  wide  apart  and  slant- 
ing a  little  at  the  corners  in  a  fascinating,  Rus- 
sian way.  Her  perfect  lips  were  delicately 
emphasized  by  a  tangerine  rouge.  Even  her 
skin  seemed  to  have  a  palely  golden  bloom  like 
pollen  on  a  peach. 

"I'm  Julie  Dare,"  she  said.  "We're  room- 
mates, aren't  we?" 

Zoe  had  never  seen  any  one  so  sleekly  beauti- 
ful as  this  golden,  gorgeous  person.  She  nodded 
mutely,  unable  to  speak  before  such  divinity. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Home  has  been  asking  about 
me?"  Julie  Dare  moved  over  to  her  dressing 
table,  and  began  brushing  her  short  hair  with 
slow,  thorough  strokes.  "I'm  back  in  my  rent 
a  few  weeks  and  Mrs.  Home  knows  I've  got  a 
new  contract  and  she's  after  me  every  minute." 

"Is  she  pretty  bad  that  way?"  Zoe  inquired, 
hypnotized  by  the  languid,  easy  grace  of  the 
other  girl. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  say  she  was  bad.  When 
you  run  three  or  four  months  without  an  engage- 
ment, she  never  says  a  word  about  board.  Loans 
you  money,  even.    But  as  soon  as  you  get  into 


WHITHER  9 

something,  then  you  pay  and  pay  and  pay.  She 
doesn't  give  you  a  chance  to  buy  as  much  as  a 
camisole."  She  turned  to  Zoe  from  the  dressing 
table.    "You  theatrical,  too?" 

"No." 

"Good.  I  can't  stand  other  actresses.  Such 
a  blamed  nuisance  telling  lies  all  the  time  about 
the  big  contracts  you've  just  turned  down,  and 
what  a  wonderful  salary  you're  getting  and  how 
you  have  to  fight  the  millionaires  away  from  the 
stage  door  and  all  that.  Hate  actresses.  Bunch 
of  pikers,  all  of  them.  But  they're  not  so  bad  as 
music  students.  Not  musical,  are  you?"  She 
paused  in  the  act  of  applying  a  vast  powder  puff 
to  her  exquisite  nose. 

"No,  I " 

"Fine.  You'll  get  sick  of  them  here.  Mrs. 
Home  always  takes  in  crowds  of  them.  Always 
practicing  or  else  showing  their  superior  talents 
by  criticizing  the  real  people.  Dinner  is  a  mess. 
You  wait.  You  say  you  just  heard  Heifetz  or 
Chaliapin  or  Garden  or  anybody  and — ah!  The 
exchange  of  eyebrow  lifting  among  the  cultured 
music  students!  Frightful  technique!  Impos- 
sible G  clefs!  Wretched  chest  notes!"  Julie 
lifted  a  shoulder  scornfully.  "That's  about  all 
study  does  to  these  ham  artists.  Just  gives  them 
the  nerve  to  knock  big  people.  Wait  until  you 
hear  Enna.  She  lives  across  the  hall  and  was 
taken  by  Witherspoon  or  Thorner  in  an  un- 
guarded moment." 


10  WHITHER 

Julie  shot  a  glance  at  Zoe's  vivid  face  through 
the  mirror. 

"Bored  already,  just  hearing  about  them?" 
she  questioned. 

Zoe  drew  a  long  breath. 

"No — thrilled.  I — you  see  I've  come  from  a 
town  of  mediocre  people,  all  in  mediocre  pro- 
fessions. I  think  it's  more  fun  being  among 
mediocre  artists  than  mediocre  bookkeepers, 
don't  you?    Oh,  I'm  sure  it  is." 

Julie  absently  drew  her  hair  straight  back, 
then  frowning,  pulled  it  forward  again. 

"Just  letting  it  grow  out,"  she  explained.  "I 
have  to  drag  it  back  in  this  hideous,  though  I 
must  say  very  Parisian,  knot,  or  else  fuzz  it  all 
over  and  put  a  net  over  it.  You're  in  luck. 
Your  type  can  wear  bobbed  hair  for  centuries 
and  never  be  out  of  style.  By  the  way,  you'd 
better  dress  or  you'll  be  late  to  dinner." 

Zoe  opened  her  suitcase,  and  drew  out  a 
brown  georgette  smock.  She  slid  into  it  negli- 
gently and  then  ran  her  hands  through  her  hair 
and  shook  it. 

"Shall  I  wait  for  you?"  she  asked  Julie,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  and  rather  hoping  Julie 
would  want  her  to  wait.  She  dreaded  entering 
the  dining  room  full  of  curious  girls  alone. 

Julie,  temporarily  submerged  by  a  slinky, 
black  evening  gown,  made  no  reply.  Finally  her 
head  appeared  and  two  slim  white  arms  and 
shoulders  wriggled  into  place.     She  stared  at 


WHITHER  11 

Zoe  and  Zoe  was  conscious  of  the  difference  in 
their  dinner  costumes. 

"I  never  wear  decollete,"  she  said  quickly. 
"My  shoulders  are  too  thin.  But  yours  are 
beautiful." 

"It  wouldn't  suit  you,  I  think,"  Julie  studied 
her  for  a  moment  with  detached  interest.  "How 
old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-two."  Zoe's  voice  was  wistful,  as  if 
twenty-two  years  was  a  long  time  to  wait  for  a 
dream.    Julie  looked  at  her  and  turned  away. 

"I'm  twenty-three,"  she  said  with  a  certain 
defiance.  Zoe  was  embarrassed  by  the  impres- 
sion that  she  was  lying. 

The  dining  room  was  on  the  lower  floor  and 
Zoe,  who  had  understood  that  Mrs.  Home  kept 
only  students  and  artists,  was  struck  by  the 
variety  of  ages  represented  by  the  few  girls  who 
had  regarded  Clematia's  wishes  and  arrived  at 
the  table  on  time.  Some  were  even  fifty — white- 
haired.  Yet  they,  also,  were  talking  eagerly  of 
"prospects."  Most  of  them  were  around  Julie's 
age — an  indefinable  age,  it  seemed  to  Zoe — a 
sort  of  petrified  twenty-three. 

Julie  pointed  Zoe  to  an  empty  place  and  made 
her  way  to  her  own  place  at  another  table,  where 
Zoe  could  hear  her  quick,  throaty  voice  dominat- 
ing the  conversation,  not  aggressively,  but  with 
a  certain  sophisticated  assurance.  Everything 
that  happened  in  Julie's  everyday  routine  was 


12  WHITHER 

apparently  a  matter  of  the  utmost  significance. 
The  shower  that  ruined  her  green  hat,  the  con- 
ductor who  addressed  her  in  Italian,  the  shop 
girl  who  gave  her  the  wrong  change.  Every  one 
hung  on  her  words,  for  the  girl  seemed  to  clothe 
everything  she  said  with  such  glamour  that  it 
attained  an  importance  out  of  all  proportion. 

"Julie's  at  it  again,"  Zoe  heard  a  voice  at  her 
elbow  breathe  and  turned  to  see  a  small,  childish- 
faced  little  person  occupying  herself  with  an 
enormous  helping  of  food.  She  looked  up  apolo- 
getically at  Zoe. 

"You  could  have  a  double  portion,  too,  if  you 
give  Clematia  perfume,"  she  whispered.  "I've 
got  to  have  it  on  account  of  my  art." 

Here  she  giggled  broadly,  and  Zoe  recognized 
her  as  unadulterated  gamin,  from  the  sandy  hair 
to  the  little,  freckled,  upturned  nose,  and  wide, 
red  mouth. 

"What  is  your  art?"  she  asked. 

"Filing,"  giggled  the  gamin,  not  deterred  by 
her  mirth  from  putting  a  vast  forkful  of  food 
into  her  mouth.  "I  file  in  an  advertising  agency. 
The  girls  think  it's  terrible.  Julie  says  I  ought 
to  have  a  career,  but  I'll  take  a  job  any  day.  Let 
the  folks  have  careers  who  don't  have  to  support 
themselves." 

"What  career  did  Julie  suggest  for  you?"  Zoe 
was  interested. 

The  gamin  shrugged  her  small  shoulders  care- 
lessly. 


WHITHER  13 

"Oh,  any  kind.  They're  all  the  same.  From 
what  I  see,  I  gather  that  a  career  means  going 
around  hunting  for  a  job.  I'm  the  only  person 
here,  I  guess,  that  works.  All  the  rest  of  the 
girls  have  careers.  Some  of  them  have  had  them 
seven  or  eight  years,  too.  That  old  lady  at  the 
next  table  has  been  waiting  thirty  years  for 
Ethel  Barrymore  to  die.  Won't  take  anything 
but  the  best  and  so  she's  never  set  foot  on  the 
stage.  She  teaches  elocution  or  something  once 
a  week,  while  she  waits." 

The  gamin  laughed  frankly  at  her  own  humor 
and  then  appraised  Zoe  keenly. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  here?    Sketch?" 

"I  want  to  get  on  a  magazine  or  newspaper." 
Zoe  warmed  to  the  business  of  discussing  her 
own  self.  "Of  course  some  day  I  want  to  be  a 
great  writer — a  playwright,  I  think.  But  that 
takes  a  long  time,  so  I'd  like  to  get  on  some 
paper  for  a  little  while.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  afford 
to  wait  for  what  I  really  want,  though.  I'll  have 
to  take  something  quick  or — or — go  back  home." 

"Excelsior!"  applauded  the  gamin,  still  apply- 
ing herself  ferociously  to  her  food.  "The  doors 
are  open  to  ambitious  young  folks.  Only  some 
are  marked  'exit.'  You  live  with  Julie,  don't 
you?    I  heard  you  in  there  just  before  dinner." 

"Then  you're  Maisie  Colburn?"  guessed  Zoe, 
and  Maisie  nodded,  silenced  for  the  instant  by 
her  gorging. 

Zoe  liked  Maisie.    It  was  fun,  of  course,  being 


14  WHITHER 

among  actresses  and  artists,  but  it  was  a  relief  to 
find  an  ordinary  being  in  the  lot.  She  looked 
around  the  dining  room  with  its  four  tables  of 
chattering  girls,  trying  to  analyze  the  queer 
facial  expression  that  seemed  common  to  all — to 
all  of  them  except  the  girl  beside  her. 

"It's  probably  just  the  metropolitan,  sophisti- 
cated look,"  Zoe  thought,  yet  she  wrinkled 
her  brows  perplexedly.  There  was  something 
vaguely  disturbing  about  this  singular  group- 
personality,  its  enameled  vivacity,  its  eagerness 
that  seemed  strained  and  oddly  cynical. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  gang?"  queried 
Maisie,  now  courting  an  unpalatable-looking 
pudding. 

"Interesting,"  murmured  Zoe.  "I — I  was 
just  wondering  if  they  were  as  young  as  they 
looked." 

"Uh-uh,"  negatived  Maisie.  "No  matter  how 
old  you  think  they  are,  they're  all  older  than 
that.    Funny?" 


CHAPTER  II 

Zoe  left  the  dining  room  with  Maisie.  She 
realized,  then,  that  she  need  have  felt  no  embar- 
rassment about  entering  it  alone,  for  although 
Mrs.  Home's  entourage  consisted  of  not  more 
than  twenty  girls,  she  had  not  attracted  the 
slightest  attention  as  a  newcomer.  Indeed,  no 
newcomer  ever  did  in  this  household.  This  was 
no  boarding-school  group,  eager  for  new  thrills 
and  new  people,  but  a  group  of  individuals,  each 
engrossed  in  her  own  absorbingly  egotistical 
affairs,  ignoring  everything  new  or  old  which  did 
not  fit  into  her  set  plan  of  life. 

Julie  glanced  up  as  Zoe  and  Maisie  were  leav- 
ing and  frowned  delicately. 

"Wonder  what  she's  here  for?"  she  speculated 
aloud,  and  then  explained  further  to  the  flam- 
boyantly hennaed  and  mascaraed  person  on  her 
left.  "New  roommate,  there,  just  going  out 
with  Maisie  Colburn.  She's  too  short  for  me, 
though." 

Across  the  table  a  faded  spinster  of  fifty 
laughed. 

"Miss  Tait  doesn't  get  the  connection  between 
heights  and  roommates,"  the  mascaraed  person 
said.  "Julie  means  she  won't  get  any  new 
clothes  out  of  the  deal.    Still,  Julie,  you  man- 

15 


16  WHITHER 

age  awfully  well  with  Enna's  things  and  she's 
smaller  than  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  furs  and  gloves  and  stockings  and 
hats  and  things  like  that,"  admitted  Julie.  "But 
I  need  a  new  street  suit  and  a  couple  of  dinner 
gowns.  I've  got  a  new  man  coming  to  town 
whose  sole  interest  in  me  is  the  fact  that  I  am 
an  actress.  He's  from  Kansas  City.  So  I  have 
to  look  the  part  and  I  want  to  know  how  I  can 
look  like  a  wicked  woman  when  I  have  to  wear 
the  same  thing  every  time  I  go  out  with  him. 
If  this  girl  only  had  something  giddy  looking. 
But  no.  She  goes  in  for  Buster  Brown  collars 
and  smocks  and  sport  shoes  and  wool  stockings 
and  mufflers.  You  have  to  admit  that  it's  not 
the  outfit  to  make  one  look  like  a  vamp." 

Amy  Bruce  looked  at  Julie  with  covert  envy. 
Of  all  the  girls  in  the  house  Julie's  charms  found 
the  most  admirers  and  it  was  in  Amy's  mind  that 
a  Buster  Brown  collar  would  be  quite  as  seduc- 
tive on  Julie  as  a  jet  shoulder-strap  on  anybody 
else.  In  fact,  Amy  had  earnestly  striven,  since 
her  arrival  at  Mrs.  Home's  seven  years  ago,  to 
make  herself  as  much  like  Julie  as  possible.  She 
unconsciously  caricatured  each  of  Julie's  little 
tricks  of  manner  and  dress.  She  let  her  hair 
grow  in  the  style  of  Julie's  blond  shock,  but 
Amy's  coarse  hair,  fuzzed  into  a  semblance  of 
Julie's,  only  looked  unbelievably  vulgar. 

Julie  patted  her  own  hair  absently. 

"Guess  I'd  better  get  dressed.  Seven  o'clock." 


WHITHER  17 

"Date  tonight?"  Amy's  voice  was  envious, 
and  Miss  Tait's  mouth  twisted  sourly. 

"And  I'm  dead  tired,  too,"  sighed  Julie.  "Re- 
hearsed all  day  long." 

"Enna  said  you  only  had  four  lines,"  Amy 
caught  her  up  maliciously.  Amy,  too,  went  in 
for  the  theater,  but  she  belonged  to  the  unlucky 
masses  who  never  get  past  the  agent's  contemp- 
tuous promises.  In  Amy's  seven  years  of  trying 
she  had  never  gotten  nearer  success  than  the 
first  rehearsal. 

"She  did?  A  lot  Enna  knows  about  it,"  Julie 
snapped.  "I  said  it  was  only  a  few  lines  consid- 
ering it  was  the  lead." 

Julie's  eyes  defied  any  retort  and  she  left  the 
table  with  casual  dignity.  At  another  table  she 
paused  and,  after  summoning  a  friendly  smile, 
leaned  over  toward  a  smoothly  coiffed,  thin- 
faced  girl  in  tortoise-shell  glasses. 

"Enna,  dear,  I  have  to  dash  out  tonight  and 
my  new  coat  hasn't  come  from  the  tailor's.  I'm 
perfectly  furious  about  it,  of  course.  Isn't  that 
always  the  way?" 

Enna,  who  knew  perfectly  well  what  her  part 
should  be  in  this  transparent  little  masquerade, 
did  not  bite.  She  looked  up  with  a  hostile 
gleam. 

"It  may  be  delivered  yet." 

"Oh,  no,  it  couldn't  possibly  come  now.  It's 
— you  see  it's  from  Hickson's  and  they  never 
send  out  anything  after  two  in  the  afternoon." 


18  WHITHER 

Enna  was  disposed  to  continue  the  battle. 

"Why,  Julie,  I've  had  things  sent  from  Hick- 
son's  at  eight  in  the  evening.  You're  sure  it  was 
Hickson's,  Julie?" 

This  was  being  downright  nasty,  but  Julie, 
being  a  supplicant,  merely  ground  her  teeth  and 
forced  a  smile. 

"There's  only  one  Hickson's,  Enna.  It  seems 
awfully  odd  that  they  should  have  different  rules 
for  different  people.  But  then  you  probably  got 
your  things  there  several  seasons  ago.  I  was 
only  wondering  if  you  were  wearing  your  gray 
coat  tonight.  I  would  be  careful  of  it,  of  course." 

Enna's  face  did  not  change  its  expression. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  let  you  have  it,  Julie.  I'm  not 
wearing  it  tonight  as  you  know.  But  my  rule  is 
'Never  borrow,  never  lend.'    So  sorry." 

"That's  all  right,"  murmured  Julie,  her  face 
flushed  with  irritation.  "It  just  occurred  to 
me." 

She  went  thoughtfully  upstairs  to  her  own 
bedroom,  where  the  new  roommate  and  Maisie 
Colburn  sat  exchanging  superficial  impressions 
of  Mrs.  Home. 

"But  you  ought  to  see  her  alone  in  her  bed- 
room at  night.  She  smokes  cigarettes  ten  inches 
long,  one  right  after  the  other,"  Maisie  solemnly 
averred.  "And  yet  to  see  that  wonderful  bed- 
side manner,  when  she  speaks  of  her  dear  girls, 

you'd   never What's    the    matter,   Julie? 

Haven't  been  bit  by  an  asp,  old  dear,  have  you?" 


WHITHER  19 

Julie's  pink-gold  face  was  temporarily  an 
angry  scarlet.  She  tossed  her  short,  blond  hair 
like  a  nettled  thoroughbred  and  began  silently 
to  repair  the  damages  which  dining  always  does 
to  the  most  artfully  designed  lips.  Zoe  watched 
curiously  and  Maisie  with  avid  delight,  while 
Julie  delicately  rouged  her  ear  lobes,  the  cleft  in 
her  chin  and  the  lids  of  her  eyes.  Then  she 
selected  one  of  four  small  vials  of  perfume  and 
with  a  tiny  glass  dropper  put  a  suggestion  on  her 
hair,  another  on  her  chin,  on  her  throat,  and  as  a 
final  triumph,  on  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

"Julie,  you're  wonderful!"  exclaimed  Maisie, 
with  a  long  sigh  of  admiration.  She  turned  to 
Zoe.  "I've  watched  her  do  it  for  two  years,  and 
she  always  does  it  exactly  the  same  way.  And 
you  know,  Julie,  you  never,  never,  never  have 
put  it  on  your  hands  first.  It's  always  the  last 
rite." 

Julie's  vanity  was  aroused  and  her  irritation 
at  Enna  forgotten.  She  began  humming  softly 
as  she  dived  in  the  closet  for  a  silver  and  lace 
hat. 

"This  hat  is  as  old  as  that  rite,  Maisie,"  she 
grumbled.  She  lifted  it  high  above  her  head  and 
then  slid  it  on  her  yellow  hair,  carefully  gauging 
the  correct  angle  from  her  mirror.  In  the  long, 
black,  clinging  gown,  with  the  big,  drooping  hat 
slightly  aslant,  she  looked  incredibly  alluring. 
She  scowled,  however,  at  her  image  in  the  mir- 
ror.   Then  she  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 


20  WHITHER 

Reassured,  she  left  the  room.  Zoe  looked  at 
Maisie  inquiringly. 

"Going  to  swipe  Enna's  coat,"  said  Maisie 
comfortably.  "She  always  does.  Enna  might 
as  well  let  her  have  it  in  the  first  place." 

Julie  returned  with  a  black  lace  and  chiffon 
evening  cloak,  which  she  flung  swiftly  over  her 
white  shoulders. 

"I  didn't  dare  take  the  gray  one,  because  she 
knew  I  wanted  it.  I  just  took  this  out  of  a  suit 
box  on  the  closet  shelf.  Isn't  it  gorgeous  and 
isn't  she  a  pig,  anyway?" 

Zoe  breathed  her  admiration.  She  had  never 
dreamed  that  girls  outside  of  fiction  could  be 
so  beautiful  as  Julie. 

"I  can't  imagine  it  being  made  for  any  one  but 
you." 

Julie  beamed. 

"I'd  better  go  down  now,  before  she  comes  up 
to  her  room,"  she  meditated  aloud.  "I'll  have  to 
take  a  taxi,  too.    Got  any  money,  Maisie?" 

Maisie  went  silently  to  her  room  and  returned 
with  two  dollar  bills. 

"It's  the  funniest  thing,"  Julie  informed  Zoe. 
"Maisie  makes  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  not  a 
third  of  the  salary  or  allowance  of  any  other  girl 
in  the  house.  And  yet  she's  the  only  one  who 
always  has  money  to  lend.  All  the  rest  of  us  are 
always  broke.  You're  never  broke,  are  you, 
Maisie?" 

"On  Fridays,"  Maisie  confessed.    "But  when 


WHITHER  21 

I'm  broke,  I  just  do  without  and  the  rest  of  you 
never  think  of  doing  that.  F 'instance,  last  Fri- 
day I  was  broke  so  I  walked  down  to  Twenty- 
fourth  Street  to  the  office  and  walked  home.  And 
I  swiped  an  extra  roll  from  the  breakfast  tray 
for  my  lunch.  See?  And  I've  got  a  cheap  room, 
besides." 

Zoe  was  occupied  with  another  thought. 

"Will  the  man  call  for  you  here?"  she  asked 
Julie. 

Julie  shrugged. 

"Heavens,  no.  New  York  men  meet  you  at 
some  hotel  and  you  have  to  scramble  down  there 
the  best  way  you  can.  If  you  haven't  the  price 
of  a  taxi,  you  have  to  go  down  in  evening  clothes 
on  the  subway  .  .  .  and  believe  me,  they  always 
pick  the  hotel  that's  most  convenient  to  them." 

"Then  you  dance  there?"  Zoe  was  eager  to 
find  out  all  the  secrets  of  the  gay  metropolitan 
life.  Soon,  perhaps,  she  would  be  going  out  like 
that,  too. 

"Hah!"  jeered  Julie.  "Not  your  New  York 
man.  You  meet  him  inside  the  swinging  doors 
and  swing  right  out  again  to  the  street  and  go 
some  place  where  there's  no  cover  charge.  And 
he  asks  you  if  you'll  have  lemon  punch.  Then 
you  each  have  lemon  punch  and  make  it  last  for 
five  or  six  dances.    Then  you  get  another  one." 

"But  Alphonse  isn't  that  way,  Julie,"  Maisie 
reminded  her.  "You  said  Alphonse  spends  lots 
of  money.    So  does  Fred." 


22  WHITHER 

"Fred's  like  all  the  Middle  Westerners,"  Julie 
scorned.  "He's  so  afraid  he  won't  act  like  a 
New  Yorker  that  he  acts  just  like  Kansas  City. 
Throws  his  money  around  and  everything.  Not 
that  I  care.  As  for  Alphonse  .  .  .  well,  South 
Americans  are  always  liberal,  I  believe,  except 
to  their  wives.  But  I  can't  go  out  with  him  much 
now,  because  I've  just  gotten  engaged  to  Fred." 

Maisie  giggled. 

"He's  the  seventh  this  year.  You  know  you'll 
never  marry  him,  Julie." 

Julie  looked  aggrieved. 

"I  certainly  will.  You  girls  make  me  furious. 
I  don't  know  why  a  girl  can't  change  her  mind, 
if  she  finds  some  one  she  likes  better.  I've  just 
made  a  few  mistakes,  that's  all.  I'm  simply  mad 
about  Fred.  I'll  marry  him  the  minute  I  get 
back  from  this  tour,  but  one's  career  comes 
first." 

With  this  reproof,  Julie  sailed  out  of  the  room, 
Enna's  lace  cloak  floating  about  her  in  filmy 
luxury. 

"I  wonder  if  she  ever  will  marry  any  of  them," 
Maisie  chuckled,  her  square  little  fingers  inter- 
locked behind  her  sandy  head,  and  her  skinny 
little  person  twisted  in  one  of  the  green  rockers. 
"She  ought  to.    She's  such  a  rotten  actress." 

Zoe  was  surprised. 

"They  all  are,"  Maisie  declared.  "They  don't 
want  to  do  anything  that  isn't  important,  for  one 
thing,  and  for  another  they  never  forget  who 


WHITHER  23 

they  are  and  that  this  is  their  great  opportunity. 
Once  in  a  while  one  of  the  girls  gets  in  something 
and  a  few  of  us  faithful  ones  trot  over  to  New 
Haven  or  Atlantic  City  to  see  it  open  and  it's 
always  the  same.  Our  delegate  is  so  afraid 
she'll  lose  herself  in  the  part  that  she's  terrible. 
Walks  on  eggs  and  uses  her  stage  laughter  that 
she  learned  of  the  elocution  teacher  back  home. 
Like  this — Ha — Ha — Ha."  Maisie  imitated  the 
Broadway  idea  of  cultured  merriment.  "Makes 
me  sick,  honestly  it  does.  And  they  all  think 
they  are  so  good,  you  know." 

"But  Julie  would  make  a  great  actress, 
surely,"  Zoe  said. 

Maisie  shook  her  head. 

"Amy  Bruce  could,  because  she's  got — well, 
I  don't  know,  but  she  could  forget  how  she 
looked  long  enough  to  play  a  part,  I'll  bet.  But 
she  looks  like  a  street-walker,  and  now  managers 
don't  like  that  type.  Did  you  say  you  wanted  to 
go  on  the  stage?" 

Zoe  hurriedly  denied  the  charge. 

"I  thought  you  looked  a  little  too  bright," 
reflected  Maisie.  "Oh,  yes,  you  were  going  to 
be  a  novelist  or  a  magazine  writer  or  something. 
If  I  were  you,  I'd  forget  all  that  stuff,  and  get  a 
good  filing  job  some  place.  Down  at  my  office, 
maybe.    I  could  get  you  in." 

"Oh,  no,"  shuddered  Zoe.  "That  sounds  just 
like  Albon.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a 
literary  career  in  New  York,  and  I — well,  I 


24  WHITHER 

simply  couldn't  file.    Of  course,  if  it  came  to 

starvation " 

"Go  ahead  with  your  magazines,"  advised 
Maisie.  "I  just  mentioned  the  filing  job, 
because  I  thought  you  might  need  the  money 
right  away.  Why  don't  you  talk  to  May 
Roberts?  She's  a  writer.  Very  successful,  too, 
they  say.  We'll  run  up  there,  and  she'll  tell  you 
where  to  go." 

Maisie  and  Zoe  found  May  Roberts  in  the 
midst  of  creation. 

She  had  one  of  the  tiny  maids'  rooms  on  the 
attic  floor  and  its  alarming  confusion  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  being  scarcely  big  enough  for  a 
dog  kennel.  An  evening  dress  worn  a  fortnight 
ago  hung  over  a  chair,  and  on  an  outspread  news- 
paper beneath  it  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  bottle  of 
shoe  polish  rested.  The  bed  was  almost  obscured 
by  a  mass  of  hat  boxes,  newspapers,  half-sorted 
laundry  and  dresses. 

At  the  writing  table  sat  May,  a  large,  prema- 
turely gray  person  of  about  thirty-four.  She 
was  working  on  a  small  portable  typewriter, 
absently  shoving  the  debris  on  the  table  with  her 
elbow,  as  the  need  arose  for  more  space  for  her 
manuscript.  Papers,  stamps,  combs  and  brushes, 
an  electric  curler,  fruit,  gloves,  veils,  hairpins 
and  two  or  three  bottles  of  ink  rioted  over  the 
table  except  for  the  small  clearing  where  her 
typewriter  sat. 


WHITHER  25 

"Busy,  May?"  Maisie  demanded  cheerily 
from  the  doorway.  Zoe  drew  back  hesitantly. 
The  author  was  probably  in  the  midst  of  a  novel 
and  certainly  would  not  feel  like  giving  advice 
to  an  aspiring  young  writer  at  this  critical 
moment. 

May  looked  up  in  obvious  irritation. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  ungra- 
ciously. 

Maisie  indicated  Zoe  with  her  thumb. 

"She  wants  to  hear  how  you  became  a  suc- 
cessful author.  You  know — how  to  get  a  job 
on  the  magazines  and  work  up  to  fame." 

Zoe  was  surprised  to  see  May's  face  light  up 
miraculously. 

"Certainly.  Come  on  in  and  sit  down.  I'm 
just  finishing  up  an  article  for  the  Sun,  but  it 
doesn't  have  to  be  in  till  tomorrow." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  Maisie  burst  out 
irrepressibly  with  the  thought  which  Zoe  had 
had,  "is  how  you  can  write  in  all  this  mess. 
Couldn't  you  write  better  if  you  took  about 
five  minutes  every  morning  and  made  a  clear- 
ing?" 

May  considered  this  without  resentment. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "I  suppose  I  could.  But  if 
I  cleaned  things  up  first,  I  would  be  in  too  virtu- 
ous a  mood  to  write.  I'd  want  to  sit  and  con- 
gratulate myself." 

Maisie  shook  her  head  hopelessly  at  this 
manifestation  of  temperament  and  then  care- 


26  WHITHER 

fully  sat  down  on  the  floor.  Zoe  removed  the 
evening  dress  from  the  chair  and  sat  down. 

"You've  got  a  lot  of  work  coming  to  you  if 
you  want  to  write,"  May  began,  leaning  back 
in  her  chair  and  eying  Zoe  severely.  "I've  been 
making  a  living  at  it  for  four  years  now,  and  let 
me  tell  you  I  work  like  a  slave.  I'm  at  it  night 
and  day.  But  now  I've  got  to  the  place  where 
I'm  recognized,  where  I  can  get  better  pay  for 
my  stuff." 

Zoe  wished  she  had  found  out  more  about 
Miss  Roberts's  work  before  she  called. 

"That  doesn't  mean  I  have  to  work  any  the 
less,  mind  you."  May  was  enjoying  herself  in 
the  role  of  the  successful  author  giving  advice  to 
the  novice.  "This  week  I've  written  nearly 
thirty  thousand  words." 

"Is  it  a  novel?"  shyly  asked  Zoe. 

May  stared. 

"Heaven  forbid,"  she  sputtered.  "A  novel? 
Good  Lord.  Whatever  put  that  in  your  head? 
Syndicate  stuff  is  my  line.  Fashions,  household 
hints,  little  poems,  jokes,  trade  suggestions — 
everything." 

"Not  even  any  short  stories?"  Zoe  clung 
weakly  to  her  idea  of  what  an  author  should 
be. 

"I  haven't   the  physique,"   dryly  answered 

May.    "I  tried  it  once  but Ever  see  any  of 

my  stuff?  I'm  Johanna  Jewell  for  the  syndi- 
cates and  Henry  France  for  the  trade  magazines. 


WHITHER  27 

I  might  give  you  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the 
'Dry  Goods  Economist'." 

Zoe's  face  plainly  and  tactlessly  revealed  her 
disgust  at  the  idea.  May,  seeing  this,  twisted 
her  mouth  sarcastically. 

"You  may  as  well  get  this  big  literary  idea 
out  of  your  head  right  away,  unless  you've  got 
enough  capital  to  support  it.  If  you  want  to 
earn  a  living  writing,  you've  got  to  write  selling 
stuff.  You'll  save  yourself  a  lot  of  hard  knocks 
if  you  start  in  doing  it  right  away." 

"I'd  thought  of  writing  plays,"  faltered  Zoe. 
"I  wanted  to  do  something  in  a  big  way." 

"You  didn't  want  to  do  anything  big,"  May 
said  in  a  hard,  contemptuous  voice.  "You're 
just  like  all  the  rest  of  them.  You  just  want  to 
be  something  big.  There's  a  difference.  You 
don't  want  to  do  anything.  None  of  you  would 
do  a  stroke  of  work  to  get  the  thing  you  think 
you  want.  You're  all  too  big  for  that."  She 
laughed  sardonically.  "I  may  be  nothing  but  a 
hack — that's  what  you  think,  I  can  tell — but  let 
me  tell  you  I  think  it's  a  damned  sight  more 
artistic  to  be  a  good  hack  than  to  be  a  bum  artist 
waiting  for  the  moon  to  drop." 

She  glared  at  Zoe  and  Maisie  and  Zoe  stared 
back,  open-mouthed,  unconscious  of  having 
given  cause  for  such  an  outburst. 

"I've  got  to  get  out  of  this  place,"  May  went 
on  abruptly.  "I'm  going  to  the  Bronx  or  to 
Brooklyn,  where  I  wont  be  constantly  aggra- 


28  WHITHER 

vated  by  the  sight  of  you  would-be  artists  float- 
ing around  trying  to  dodge  work.    I  don't  mean 

to  be  personal,  Miss whatever  your  name 

is,  but  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  get  this 
big  stuff  idea  out  of  your  head  and  go  hunt  for  a 
job.  If  you're  a  born  genius,  you'll  go  some 
place  and  starve  and  write,  but  you  don't  look 
that  kind.  You  want  baths  and  nice  neighbor- 
hoods and  decent  friends  and  salads  and  beaux 
and  orchestra  seats  in  the  theater  more  than  you 
want  to  write  plays."  She  held  up  her  hand  as 
Zoe  started  to  protest.  "It's  nothing  against 
you.  Only  why  kid  yourself  into  thinking  you're 
an  artist  when  you're  just  a  bright  girl  out  look- 
ing for  thrills?  You  look  clever  enough  and  you 
might  get  on  some  trade  paper  or  in  a  publicity 
office.    That's  the  best  advice  I  can  give  you." 

Zoe,  burning  with  resentment,  murmured  in- 
coherent thanks.  She'd  show  May  Roberts  and 
the  whole  world!  She  would  write  great,  won- 
derful plays  like  "Hedda  Gabler."  She  would 
starve,  and  when  the  play  was  done  she  would 
fall  in  a  swoon  from  her  privations  for  art's  sake. 
Her  hair  would  turn  gray  prematurely  and  she 
would  become  a  literary  nun,  her  life  conse- 
crated to  her  work.  She  shuddered  involuntarily 
at  the  thought. 

"Never  mind,"  Maisie  consoled  her,  as  they 
went  downstairs.  "Nasty  old  May.  Didn't 
think  she'd  jump  on  you  like  that.  Anyway 
there's  always  the  filing  job  in  my  office." 


WHITHER  29 

Zoe  felt  sick  with  discouragement.  What  if 
her  money  should  give  out  and  she'd  have  to  be 
a  reporter  for  a  trade  paper  or  a  file  clerk — those 
things  May  suggested  as  inevitable? 


CHAPTER  III 

One  evening  Zoe  was  lying  down  on  her  bed 
after  dinner,  trying  vainly  to  fix  her  thoughts 
on  the  book  she  had  in  her  hand.  Julie  was  out, 
of  course,  this  time  with  a  visitor  from  Detroit, 
her  fiance  having  been  put  off  with  some  frail 
excuse.  Maisie,  the  cheerful  little  cynic,  had 
gone  out  to  take  in  her  weekly  movie  with  one 
of  the  gushing  little  art  students  on  the  third 
floor. 

Zoe  felt  poignantly  lonely — the  loneliness 
that  comes  to  solitary  souls  in  great  cities, 
always  the  more  devastating  because  of  the  con- 
trasting gayety  of  the  millions  of  others  so  near. 
It  had  been  a  hard  day,  too,  down  at  the  ad- 
vertising office.  Grinding  routine,  in  spite  of 
Maisie's  ironic  little  murmurs  of  encouragement. 

"If  I  had  had  to  do  filing  like  that  back  home, 
I  would  have  died,"  Zoe  ruminated,  "The  Tree 
of  Heaven"  falling  from  her  fingers.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  have  to  do  it  in  New  York — well,  of 
course,  my  board  has  to  be  paid.  And  I  never, 
never  would  have  been  taken  on  as  an  editor. 
People  are  so  nasty  about  experience  and 
degrees  and  things." 

She  closed  her  tired  eyes,  and  pressed  her 
fingers  against  them.  There  were  little  blue 
patches  under  her  eyes  and  drawn  lines  about 

30 


WHITHER  31 

her  mouth.  Somehow  a  deadly  routine  job — 
filing,  filing,  filing,  all  day  long — seemed  to  sap 
all  of  one's  enthusiasm.  But  perhaps  it  was  too 
presumptuous  to  hope  that  one  might  earn  a 
living  at  something  thrilling  and  agreeable. 
Perhaps  people  never  did  enjoy  their  work. 

"I'll  have  to  stick  at  this  old  job  until  after 
Christmas,  anyway,"  Zoe  mused.  "That's  five 
months  off.  Then  perhaps  I'll  have  some  money 
saved  and  can  start  doing  something  real.  But 
maybe  I  could  stand  this  job  better  if  I  could 
have  excitement  every  night  the  way  Julie  does, 
and  suitors  and  dances,  and  pretty  clothes,  and 
things  like  that " 

The  door  opened  and  Enna,  in  kimono  and 
curl  papers,  came  in. 

"I'm  going  to  a  big  party  at  the  Ritz  tomor- 
row night,"  Enna  hastened  to  explain  her  neg- 
lige, "and  I'm  resting  tonight,  as  you  see,  in 
order  to  be  in  good  shape  for  it.  Julie's  out,  I 
suppose?" 

Zoe  nodded  wearily,  amused  at  the  remem- 
brance of  Julie  in  Enna's  best  Paris  hat.  What 
Enna  did  with  such  handsome  clothes  was  a 
mystery  to  every  one  in  the  house,  for  her  New 
England  face  and  character  belied  all  craving 
for  material  show.  It  was  generally  understood, 
through  Clematia,  that  Enna's  mother  was  a 
wealthy  Bostonian  who  showered  elaborate 
gifts  on  Enna  to  make  up  for  her  neglect  in 
other  respects. 


32  WHITHER 

"Traveling  on  the  continent,  wintering  in 
Spain,  and  cruising  on  the  Mediterranean  in 
summer,"  Julie  had  informed  Zoe.  "Having  a 
fine  time  without  her  lemon  of  a  daughter  to 
cramp  her  activities.  Enna's  clothes  simply 
represent  an  erring  mother's  conscience.  And 
Enna  knows  it,  too.  That's  why  you  never  hear 
a  peep  about  gay  Mama,  but  always  about  dear 
Aunt  Sophronia  in  Providence.  Mama  would 
get  a  good  laugh,  though,  if  she  could  see  her 
dutiful  daughter  with  that  little  black  French 
hat  stuck  on  the  back  of  her  head  like  a  sun- 
bonnet." 

Now  Zoe  looked  at  Enna  with  a  certain  de- 
tached sympathy.  The  girl  probably  felt  the 
situation  rather  deeply.  Still,  it  was  difficult  to 
believe  that  there  was  any  thought  behind 
Enna's  smug  little  face  that  did  not  yield  the 
utmost  satisfaction  to  herself. 

"Anything  you  wanted?"  Zoe  tumbled  into 
a  sitting  posture. 

"No,"  said  Enna,  seating  herself  gingerly  on 
the  arm  of  a  chair.  "I  only  wanted  to  know  the 
name  of  the  night  cream  that  Julie  depends  on 
for  her  complexion.  I  thought  I'd  send  out  for 
some." 

Zoe  did  not  know  and  Enna  examined  the  jars 
and  vials  on  Julie's  dresser  with  absorbed  inter- 
est.   She  tried  the  perfume. 

"Night  of  Love — I  must  remember  that. 
Wonder  what  Julie  paid  for  it.    Ah,  here's  the 


WHITHER  33 

She  dabbed  a  little  on  her  hand,  and 
smelled  it  cautiously,  as  if,  Zoe  thought,  there 
might  be  black  magic  in  it.  Then  she  took  a 
little  more  and  rubbed  it  on  her  face,  looking  in 
the  mirror  hopefully,  doubtless  expecting  to 
change  at  once  into  Beauty.  "That's  what  I 
want.  I  wonder  what  Julie  would  do  without  her 
little  beauty  aids.  She  leaves  you  alone  a  great 
deal,  doesn't  she?  It's  a  wonder  she  wouldn't 
take  you,  at  least,  on  some  of  her  parties." 

Zoe  laughed  grimly. 

"She  can't  take  me  until  I  get  some  clothes 
that  make  me  look  less  provincial." 

"She  has  asked  you,  lien?" 

Zoe  nodded. 

"Often.  I'm  looking  forward  to  going,  but 
one  doesn't  want  to  look  like  a  maid  or  poor  rela- 
tion. Julie  always  looks  so  gorgeous."  She 
stopped  suddenly,  realizing  that  half  of  Julie's 
gorgeousness  was  due  to  her  present  guest's  fine 
wardrobe. 

"Anybody  home?"  a  voice  in  the  hall  called. 

Enna  froze. 

"It's  that  Amy  Bruce.  She's  coming  in  here. 
I'll  go." 

Amy  Bruce  came  in,  her  hair  dazzlingly  mar- 
celed  and  freshly  hennaed,  her  eyelashes  newly 
mascaraed,  her  lips  garishly  red  and  her  eyelids 
rouged  after  Julie's  fashion.  She  wore  a  blue 
duvetyn  dress  that  permitted  an  amazing  view 
of  her  bosom,  although  it  could  scarcely  be 


34  WHITHER 

termed  a  dinner  gown.  Her  hose,  sheerer  even 
than  Julie's  cobwebby  stockings,  accentuated 
ankles  and  legs  that  had  better  been  left  unre- 
vealed.  She  gave  Enna  a  veiled  smile  and  looked 
at  Zoe. 

"I  have  to  go  up  to  the  drug  store  and  get 
some  powder.  Anybody  want  to  walk  up  and 
get  a  frosted  chocolate?    It's  only  nine  o'clock." 

"Heavens,  no!"  Enna  shuddered.  "I  loathe 
that  drug  store.  Besides  I'm  going  to  bed  in 
order  to  get  a  good  rest.  You  see  there  is  this 
big  party  at  the  Ritz  tomorrow  night " 

"Ho,  ho!"  laughed  Amy  loudly.  "Yes,  I 
thought  of  going  to  that,  myself." 

"This  is  a  party  given  by  a  dear  friend  of 
mine — Alice  Bradley,"  maintained  Enna,  angry 
at  Amy's  incredulity.  "Just  because  you  have 
no  respectable  friends  in  New  York,  you  seem  to 
think " 

"There,  there,  Enna,"  soothed  Amy,  mock- 
ingly. "Of  course  her  is  going  to  the  Ritz  with 
her  swell  little  friend.  Maybe  Mrs.  Hunter 
Bradley  herself  will  be  there  to  welcome  little 
Enna." 

"That's  Alice's  mother! "  exclaimed  Enna,  and 
Amy  burst  into  peals  of  appreciative  laughter. 

"Oh,  Enna,  you're  good.  Didn't  know  you 
had  it  in  you."  She  turned  to  Zoe.  "Well, 
you're  not  preparing  for  the  Ritz,  are  you? 
Come  on  out.    I  hate  to  go  alone." 

Enna  stalked  from  the  room  in  thoroughly 


WHITHER  35 

justifiable  rage  at  having  her  modest  announce- 
ment taken  as  plain  bragging.  Her  glare  at  the 
doorway  included  Zoe,  who  could  not  help  but 
laugh. 

"Old  prude,"  sniffed  Amy.  She  took  in  Zoe 
with  her  large  dark  eyes.  "Why  don't  you  slip 
on  Julie's  sport  coat?  You'd  look  good  in  it.  I 
imagine  red  is  your  color,  isn't  it?  Julie  wouldn't 
care  if  you  wore  it." 

Zoe,  who  had  been  in  the  act  of  putting  on  her 
brown  suit  coat,  hesitated. 

"Why,  I  hardly  think  she'd  care.  And  I  do 
get  so  sick  of  this  old  brown  thing.  Do  you 
think  it  will  fit  me?" 

The  red  coat  was  found  and  enveloped  Zoe's 
slender  little  figure  without  revealing  that  its 
original  owner  was  somewhat  larger  in  size. 

Amy  disappeared  for  her  own  hat  and  gloves 
and  they  left  the  house  a  moment  later,  walking 
arm  in  arm  down  Eighty-third  Street  to  Broad- 
way. Amy,  to  Zoe's  amazement,  had  dashed  on 
even  more  lipstick  and  Zoe  felt  uncomfortable 
at  the  knowing  looks  which  the  men  they  met 
cast  at  Amy.    But  Amy  laughed  enjoyably. 

"Guess  we're  a  pair,  Zoe.  Do  you  mind  if  I 
call  you  Zoe?  And  you  call  me  Amy.  Notice 
how  everybody  takes  us  in?  That  red  coat  just 
sets  you  off  great.  If  I  were  you,  I'd  trade  in 
something  with  Julie  for  it.  She  hardly  ever 
wears  it.  She  got  it  when  she  was  running 
around  with  some  Princeton  boys  and  wanted  to 


36  WHITHER 

look  like  a  flapper.    Now  that  she  goes  in  for 
vamp  stuff,  she  never  wears  it." 

Zoe  felt  a  thrill  of  adventure,  now  that  her 
first  distrust  of  her  companion  had  evaporated. 
The  night  air,  with  the  river  breeze,  was  invig- 
orating; the  lights  of  Broadway  gayly  inviting, 
and  Amy,  her  perfume  as  obvious  as  the  rest  of 
her,  seemed  to  exude  with  it  a  secret  anticipa- 
tion of  pleasure.  At  Broadway  they  had  passed 
Evart's  Drug  Store  before  Zoe  called  Amy's 
attention  to  it. 

"Plenty  more  shops  up  Broadway.  Powder 
can  wait.  Let's  take  a  walk,"  said  Amy.  She 
tucked  Zoe's  slim  brown  fingers  under  her  arm, 
and  led  her  toward  the  curb. 

"Fellows  don't  pay  any  attention  to  you  from 
the  machines  unless  you're  by  the  curb,"  she 
explained.  "And  sometimes  you  see  somebody 
you  know,  too — or  maybe  that  you'd  like  to. 
Say,  did  you  see  those  three  fellows  in  that  Cad- 
illac that  just  passed?  Look!  They're  turning 
around." 

"Oh — Oh."  Zoe's  thumping  heart  choked 
her.  This  was  adventure,  sure  enough,  but  there 
was  almost  too  much  danger  in  it  for  enjoyment. 
Amy's  eyes  were  dancing  with  fun.  She  glanced 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Come.  Don't  look  around,  because  I  can 
see  them  all  right.  Trust  little  Amy.  .  .  .  Darn 
.  .  .  They  didn't  look  that  time  at  all.  .  .  . 
Wait  .   .   .  Oh,  I  see.  .   .  .  They're  after  those 


WHITHER  37 

three  girls  up  there  in  front  of  the  Adelphi. 
Isn't  that  rich?  Wonderful  car,  too,  isn't  it? 
Everybody  seems  to  be  out  tonight." 

Zoe  stole  a  curious  glance  at  Amy.  Her  com- 
panion was  enjoying  herself  to  the  utmost.  Her 
eyes  were  alight  with  the  joys  of  the  hunt  and 
her  feet  were  fairly  dancing.  She  was  humming, 
not  too  softly,  one  of  the  jazziest  of  the  latest 
jazz  tunes.  Men  looked  at  her  and  their  eyes 
traveled  to  Zoe,  too.  She  felt  elated.  This 
now,  was  New  York ! 

"Keep  your  eye  out,  honey,"  said  Amy.  "We 
don't  want  to  let  anything  get  past.  I've  got  my 
eye  on  the  machines.  .  .  .  Say,  wouldn't  it  be 
slick  if  we'd  meet  a  couple  o'  fellows  who'd  take 
us  out  to  Blossom  Heath  or — but,  let's  not  be 
too  particular!" 

She  laughed  and  an  older  man,  standing  in  the 
door  of  a  cigar  store,  looked  at  Zoe  and  winked. 
Zoe  laughed,  too,  in  sheer  abandonment. 

"Wait.  .  .  .  Look  at  this  hat.  You'd  look 
stunning  in  that  hat,  Zoe.  You  need  a  dash  of 
color,  you  know.  You've  no  idea  how  every 
one  stares  at  you  in  that  red  coat." 

Zoe,  catching  sight  of  her  borrowed  plumes  in 
a  shop-window  mirror,  was  astonished  at  her- 
self. Her  slim,  olive  face  was  fiery  red  and  the 
red  coat  made  her  eyes  look  wide  and  as  bold  as 
Amy's  own.  The  sight,  somehow,  brought  her  to 
a  startled  halt.  But  Amy  was  nudging  her  and 
whispering  in  her  ear. 


38  WHITHER 

"Pretend  we're  looking  at  this  hat.  .  .  .  Isn't 
it  pretty?  Cheap,  too,  I  believe.  Not  more 
than  thirty  at  the  most.  I  think  I'll  go  in  now 
and  get  it." 

"Yes."  Zoe's  tongue  stuck  to  the  roof  of  her 
mouth  with  the  consciousness  that  she  must 
somehow  play  up.    "It's  very  nice — it — it " 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  giggled  Amy.  She  took  Zoe's 
arm  firmly  and  started  in  the  store. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Zoe.  "You're  not  really  going 
to  get  it?" 

"Tonight?  Well,  if  you  are  in  such  a  hurry 
to  get  those  earrings,  I  suppose  I  can  wait  until 
tomorrow."  Here  Amy's  gaze  wandered  vaguely 
off  to  the  two  men  who  were  standing  at  the 
other  window  of  the  shop.  The  men  stared  at 
Amy  and  then  at  Zoe. 

"I'm  pretty  good  at  picking  earrings."  The 
younger  man,  a  short,  rotund  person  in  a  vivid 
topcoat,  pretended  to  address  his  companion, 
a  tall,  well-tailored  man  with  keen,  dark  eyes. 
"How  about  you,  Chuck?" 

"Earrings  are  my  specialty,"  affirmed  the 
other,  his  eye  deliberately  measuring  Amy's 
obvious  charms  against  Zoe's  subtler  ones. 

"We  don't  need  any  advice  about  that,"  Amy 
said,  taking  Zoe's  arm  and  walking  away  in 
mock  dignity.    "If  we  did,  we'd  ask  for  it." 

"Ho!  Aren't  we  the  fresh  guys! "  mocked  the 
younger  man,  lighting  a  cigarette,  but  keeping 
his  eye  on  Zoe. 


WHITHER  39 

Zoe,  for  her  part,  was  not  at  all  sure  what 
Amy's  idea  was,  for  that  lady  had  suddenly 
stopped  in  her  feigned  flight  and  pretended  to 
have  difficulty  with  a  shoe  string.  The  two  men 
came  up  and  the  younger  one  caught  Amy's  arm 
as  she  arose. 

"I  say,  how  about  a  little  ride?  That's  our 
boat,  there,  the  green  one." 

Zoe  saw  a  green  touring  car  at  the  curb  and 
saw  Amy  swiftly  taking  in  the  same  thing. 

"If  you'll  let  me  drive,"  laughed  Amy,  her  eye 
catching  Zoe's  triumphantly. 

"We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see." 

Zoe  found  herself  in  the  front  seat  of  the 
machine,  while  the  older  man  took  his  place 
beside  her  at  the  wheel.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
heart  beat  with  excitement  and  the  thrill  of 
danger,  but  she  was  speechless.  What  did  one 
talk  about  to  a  man  met  in  this  fashion?  The 
car  slid  down  the  street  and  up  Broadway.  She 
could  hear  Amy  bantering  with  "George"  in  the 
back  seat,  as  they  whirled  up  Broadway  through 
the  nineties  and  early  hundreds. 

"Pelham  Heath?"  questioned  Chuck,  negli- 
gently. 

"I'd  love  it,"  cried  Zoe. 

Her  companion  looked  down  at  her  with  indif- 
ferent curiosity.  Zoe,  catching  his  eye,  hoped 
that  he  liked  her.  He  did  act  rather  bored, 
though.  In  the  back  seat,  Amy  and  George 
appeared  to  have  struck  up  a  most  amiable  rela- 


40  WHITHER 

tionship,  and  Chuck,  after  a  while,  addressed 
his  conversation  chiefly  to  them. 

They  spun  through  Bronx  Park  and  out 
toward  the  popular  road  house  which  was  their 
destination.  Zoe  studied  her  companion  cov- 
ertly. Such  an  absence  of  intellectuality  fasci- 
nated her.  She  wondered  what  he  thought 
about.  He  did  have  an  intelligent  face,  in  a 
way,  but  his  remarks  were  exactly  of  the  kind 
young  Albon  blades  made.  His  manner,  how- 
ever, was  distinctly  of  Broadway,  a  sophisticated 
condescension,  a  blase  assurance. 

"Yes,  theatrical,"  Zoe  heard  Amy  answering 
some  question  that  George  had  put.  "Just  fin- 
ished an  engagement  in  Boston  and  I'm  resting 
up.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  of  any  manager  that 
wants  a  leading  lady,  do  you?" 

This  was  said  in  laughter,  but  it  was  clear  that 
Amy  never  missed  a  possible  bet. 

"I'm  in  the  business,  myself,"  Chuck  threw 
over  his  shoulder  suddenly.  "Call  at  my  office 
and  I'll  see  what  we  can  do.    Musical  comedy?" 

"No,"  said  Amy,  with  equal  sang-froid, 
"drama.  I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  this  office  of 
yours.    Where  is  it — Bryant  Park?" 

"The  lobby  of  the  Hotel  Algonquin,"  laughed 
George. 

"Broadway  and  Thirty-seventh — Morrel  and 
Levy,"  said  Chuck,  without  taking  his  eyes  from 
the  road.  Zoe  could  tell  from  Amy's  stunned 
silence  that  she  was  impressed  at  last. 


WHITHER  41 

"I'll  be  around  tomorrow,"  Amy  retorted, 
after  a  pause,  and  then  began  a  boisterous  con- 
versation with  George.  Zoe,  who  now  felt  stiff 
and  out  of  place  in  the  party,  wished  that  she 
was  going  on  the  stage,  too.  It  was  depressing 
to  think  of  the  dull  routine  of  office  work. 
Besides,  Amy's  confessed  propensities  seemed  to 
surround  her  with  a  glamorous  charm,  and  Zoe 
felt  envious  of  the  attention  which  both  men 
gave  to  her.  It's  much  worse,  she  thought,  being 
neglected  by  dull  men  than  by  nice  men. 

They  came  within  sight  of  the  glittering  road 
house,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  a  golden-lit  circle 
fringed  with  limousines  and  taxicabs.  Once 
inside,  it  seemed  to  Zoe  a  fantastic  mingling  of 
brilliant  lights,  waiters'  white  shirt  fronts,  intox- 
icating jazz  music  and  syncopated  couples.  She 
was  dazzled  by  its  gayety.  There  was  dancing 
with  Chuck  and  dancing  with  adipose  George, 
whose  faintly  quizzical  eyes  made  her  uncom- 
fortable. Amy,  her  hennaed  head  comfortably 
resting  on  one  or  the  other  man's  shoulder,  her 
black  eyes  fastened  boldly  on  her  partner,  and 
her  whole  body  abandoned  to  the  dance,  would 
occasionally  flash  a  triumphant  glance  at  Zoe, 
which  Zoe  interpreted  as  "We  landed  pretty 
this  time,  thanks  to  me!" 

This — yes,  this  was  New  York!  She  must 
get  used  to  this  strange  whirl. 

Back  at  Mrs.  Home's  about  midnight,  Zoe 
came  flying  into  her  room,  leaving  Amy  down  on 


42  WHITHER 

the  street  making  some  obscure  negotiations 
with  the  escorts,  which  Zoe  suspected  did  not 
concern  her.  Julie  was  sitting  on  her  bed,  cold- 
creaming  her  face  for  the  night.  She  nodded 
at  Zoe's  explanation  of  the  red  coat,  but  she 
whistled  softly  when  Zoe  incoherently  outlined 
her  evening. 

"Out  with  Amy  Bruce?"  she  said,  thought- 
fully. "Better  go  a  little  easy  with  her,  Zoe. 
She  might  have  got  you  into  a  nice  mess,  because 
she  doesn't  care  what  happens  so  long  as  it's 
exciting.  It's  just  pure  luck  that  those  fellows 
were  even  decent.  Glad  you  had  a  good  time, 
though.  I  didn't  know  you  were  that  much  of 
a  gambler.  These  motor  flirtations  aren't  always 
such  simple  little  affairs." 

"I  suppose  it  was  gambling,"  agreed  Zoe  from 
the  lavatory  where  she  was  giving  herself  a 
desultory  scrubbing.  The  thrill  of  a  few  hours 
before  was  gone.  Now  she  felt  vaguely  nause- 
ated, remembering  the  trip  coming  home.  Once 
she  had  looked  around  and  was  staggered  to  see 
George  and  Amy  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 
Why,  Amy  and  George  had  never  seen  each 
other  before!  Suddenly  the  adventure  changed. 
It  was  not  a  scarlet  patch  of  New  York — the 
strange,  whirling  city  she  had  come  to  discover, 
but  a  cheap,  sordid  thing.  Zoe  had  felt  hot  and 
ashamed  the  rest  of  the  way  home.  She  told 
herself  she  should  be  flattered  that  the  other 
three  did  not  consider  her  one  of  them,  but  she 


WHITHER  43 

wasn't.  The  fact  only  deepened  her  humiliation. 

" Where  did  you  go?"  Zoe  asked  after  a 
moment. 

"Theater,"  laconically  answered  Julie.  "Fred 
followed  us  and  started  making  a  scene  right 
outside  the  Ambassador  Grill.  I  simply  handed 
him  his  ring  and  we  walked  on  out,  leaving  him 
gasping  there." 

"Julie!   You  didn't!   What  did  you  do  then?" 

"Jack  and  I  taxied  to  the  theater  and  got 
engaged.  We're  going  to  pick  out  an  apartment 
tomorrow.    Really,  Zoe,  he's — sweet." 

Zoe  murmured  felicitations.  If  men  in  New 
York  didn't  like  her  any  better  than  Chuck  had, 
she  certainly  would  never  be  engaged. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Zoe  had  been  filing  letters  for  a  full  four  hours 
and  her  eyes  had  been  flying  to  the  big  clock 
intermittently  for  the  last  half  hour.  Maisie 
had  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  sent  on  some  mis- 
sion up  to  the  Bronx  and  had  confided  to  Zoe,  as 
she  went  out,  that  she  hadn't  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  coming  back  to  the  office  that  afternoon. 
It  was  five  now  and  Maisie  had  kept  her  word. 
Zoe  pictured  her  up  at  Mrs.  Home's,  in  her 
funny  little  brown  kimono,  having  an  orgy  of 
laundry  work. 

In  the  copywriters'  room,  Zoe  could  see  the 
men  already  leaving  for  the  night,  with  the 
exception  of  that  blue-eyed  Mr.  Cornell,  who 
always  stayed  overtime.  Zoe  had  a  suspicion 
that  he  was  one  of  those  hundred  per  cent  Ameri- 
can go-getters  that  one  read  about  in  the  suc- 
cess magazines,  but  he  was  good  looking  enough 
to  be  forgiven  for  it.  He  was  leaning  over  his 
desk  and  in  front  of  him  was  a  jar  of  cold  cream 
which  appeared  to  be  the  object  of  the  most 
profound  consideration. 

Two  stenographers  came  through  the  filing 
room  with  their  hand  towels  and  vanity  cases, 
en  route  for  the  wash  room  for  the  five  o'clock 
dolling  up.     Zoe  herself  shook  her  hair  back, 

44 


WHITHER  45 

yawned  thoroughly,  and  pushed  the  contents  of 
the  filing  basket  into  her  top  drawer.  She 
glanced  at  her  image  in  the  small,  cracked  mir- 
ror above  the  file  cabinets.  Blue  shadows  under 
her  eyes!  Tired  mouth!  Heavens,  she  was 
getting  old.  Those  stenographers  were  just  as 
near  twenty-three  as  she  was,  yet  they  did  man- 
age to  look  like  the  most  irresponsible  of  flap- 
pers. They  came  in  now  to  stick  their  ridiculous 
little  sport  hats  on  top  of  their  bobbed  hair 
which  stuck  out  straight  from  their  heads.  A 
little  more  lipstick  and  then  they  draped  their 
orange  and  scarlet  scarves  about  their  necks, 
over  the  short,  flaring  overcoats,  and  they  were 
off  with  a  murmured  good  night. 

Zoe  was  about  to  pull  her  tarn  o'shanter  on 
her  vivid  black  hair  when  a  masculine  head  was 
thrust  out  of  Mr.  Bergman's — the  president's — 
office.  It  was  Mr.  Kane,  the  art  director  and  Mr. 
Bergman's  councilor.  According  to  Maisie,  he 
was  a  queer  sort  who  hated  business  but  seemed 
to  be  a  natural-born  genius  in  advertising. 

"Probably  won't  stay  with  us  long,"  Maisie 
had  said.  "One  of  these  birds  that  hops  in  and 
puts  a  business  on  its  well-known  feet  and  then 
hops  out  again.  Old  Bergman  nurses  him  along 
like  a  hothouse  plant." 

"I  say,  don't  go  yet,  please,"  he  called,  hesi- 
tantly, at  sight  of  Zoe.  "I  want  you  for  just  a 
moment  here." 

Zoe  put  on  her  hat  and  went  in.    In  her  two 


46  WHITHER 

months  in  this  office,  she  had  never  had  occasion 
to  come  in  contact  with  either  Kane  or  Berg- 
man, their  demands  from  the  file  usually  being 
made  through  one  of  the  flapper  stenographers. 
She  wondered  why  she  was  needed  now. 

Kane  sat  down  without  glancing  at  her  after 
she  was  inside  his  door  and  looked  hurriedly 
through  some  papers.  His  hands  were  thin, 
tanned,  muscular  hands — outdoor  hands,  Zoe 
thought.  His  face  wasn't  a  business  face  either, 
but — well,  more  of   a  scholar's.     His  slightly 

stooped  shoulders,  too He  looked  up  and 

Zoe's  eyes  hastily  dropped  to  the  hands  again. 

"Here  we  are,  Bowman  &  Smith,  Albany. 
Dear  Mr.  Bowman:  In  regard  to " 

Zoe  realized  that  Kane  accepted  her  as  a 
stenographer.    She  got  up. 

"What's  the  trouble?  Pencil?  Here!"  He 
shoved  a  pad  and  pencil  at  her,  and  began 
again 


it 


-the  product  seems  to  be  one  we  are 
peculiarly  qualified  to  advertise.  Our  campaign, 
as  you  know,  for  the  Rosetree  Saddle  Com- 
pany  " 

Zoe  was  writing  furiously  in  longhand,  too 
intimidated  by  Kane's  air  to  protest  that  she 
was  only  a  file  clerk.  Kane  finished  and  asked 
that  she  read  the  dictation. 

"The  product  seems  to  be  a  peculiar  one  to 
advertise — oh,  that  can't  be  it!"  Zoe  was  red 
with  consternation. 


WHITHER  47 

Kane  stared  at  her.  "Haven't  you  taken  dic- 
tation before?" 

"I'm  not  a  stenographer,  you  see,"  she  ex- 
plained, her  pencil  quivering  in  her  nervous 
fingers.    "I  wanted  to  tell  you  but " 

"Of  course!"  Kane  was  embarrassed  by  the 
thought  of  his  high-handedness.  "You're  a  copy 
writer." 

For  an  instant  Zoe  felt  a  burning  elation.  He 
actually  thought  she  was  a  writer.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  know  that  she  didn't  bear  all  the 
marks  of  the  file  clerk. 

"I'm  not — yet,  but  I'd  like  to  be,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  looking  eagerly  at  him.  "I'm  just 
filing  now  to — to  get  a  line  on  the  firm's  policy." 

"Hmph."  Mr.  Kane  was  temporarily  inter- 
ested and  shot  a  covert  glance  at  Zoe.  Attract- 
ive. Or  perhaps  more  clever-looking  than 
attractive.  Stupid  of  him  to  start  dictating 
without  even  seeing  her.  Why,  it  might  even 
have  been  a  prospective  lady  client  and  then  he 
would  have  been  in  a  mess !  It  was  the  strain  of 
this  damned  advertising  business.  .  .  . 

"Working  up,  eh?"  Kane  smiled,  and  Zoe 
wondered  if  she  had  been  mistaken  in  her  first 
estimate  of  his  age.  She  had  thought  thirty-five 
at  least,  but  he  probably  wasn't  much  over 
thirty.    Odd. 

"That  was  my  plan,"  she  answered  swiftly. 
So  this  was  how  one  found  a  career.  You  didn't 
seek  it  or  fret  over  it,  but  simply  waited  and  let 


48  WHITHER 

things  drift  until  suddenly  the  goal  appeared. 
She  hadn't  known  she  wanted  to  be  an  advertis- 
ing writer.  She  thought  she  wanted  to  become 
a  playwright,  but  when  the  one  was  so  far  away 
and  the  other  so  near.  .  .  .  Writing  copy  wasn't 
writing  plays,  but  it  was  glorious  compared  with 
riling.  It  even  seemed  inexplicably  more  allur- 
ing than  May  Roberts's  hack  writing. 

Kane  toyed  with  a  paper  cutter  for  a  moment. 

"Since  you're  trying  out  the  business,  per- 
haps you've  thought  of  a  good  catch  phrase  for 
Voorhees  Cold  Cream." 

Zoe's  brain  became  hot  with  the  necessity  for 
quick  thinking.  Here,  now,  was  her  chance. 
Was  she  equal  to  it?  She  should  flash  something 
staggeringly  big,  something  that  would  make 
Kane  stare  with  admiration.  Something — her 
mind  was  a  horrible  blank. 

"The  Cream  of  Fair  Women,"  she  heard  her- 
self saying,  and  felt  Kane's  surprised  approval. 

"Why — why,  by  Jove,  that's  not  bad.  Not 
bad,  at  all.  The  Cream  of  Fair  Women.  With 
a  pageant  of  beautiful  Helens  and  Ninons  in  the 
background." 

His  lean,  almost  ascetically  modeled  face 
plainly  expressed  approbation  and  Zoe,  who  had 
spoken  before  she  had  even  formed  the  thought, 
was  choky  with  excitement. 

Kane  wrote  the  phrase  down  on  a  pad  and 
smiled  thoughtfully. 

"If  this  is  a  go,  you're  quite  likely  to  find 


WHITHER  49 

yourself  embarked  on  your  copy- writing  career. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Bergman  was  just  speaking 
of  getting  a  girl  in  the  copy  room.  We  have  so 
many  cosmetic  accounts  which  really  require  the 
feminine  angle.  Bergman  spoke  of  an  experi- 
enced writer,  but  since  you  seem  to  have  ideas, 
he  may  make  a  concession." 

Zoe's  head  throbbed  and  she  could  barely 
murmur  her  thanks.  Kane  called  over  his  shoul- 
der to  young  Cornell  in  the  big  office. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  for  Voorhees — 
Cream  of  Fair  Women?" 

Cornell  looked  up. 

"Good  stuff,"  he  exclaimed.  "The  stenogs 
will  eat  it." 

Kane's  gray  eyes  smiled  through  their  shell- 
rimmed  spectacles  at  Zoe. 

"I'll  see  to  it  that  you  get  a  tryout  in  the  copy 
room,"  he  promised.    "You  are  Miss " 

Zoe  supplied  the  name. 

"They  may  think  my  line  was  too  tricky,"  she 
said  anxiously. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  give  us  another,"  an- 
swered Kane.  He  went  back  to  his  little  glass- 
enclosed  office  and  the  papers  on  the  desk 
reminded  him  of  the  Bowman  Smith  letter. 

"Sorry  to  have  been  so  insistent  about  that 
letter,"  he  apologized.  "I  hadn't  seen  you  in 
the  file  room,  or  I  would  have  known." 

"Miss  Colburn  brought  me  here,"  Zoe  volun- 
teered, to  help  his  memory.    It  was  not  gratify- 


50  WHITHER 

ing  to  be  around  a  place  two  months  and  not  be 
noticed. 

"The  little  kid  with  the  snub  nose,"  Kane 
reflected.  He  closed  his  desk.  Zoe  liked  the 
leisurely  assurance  of  his  movements.  She  went 
out  for  her  hat  again.    She  looked  in  the  little 

cracked  mirror  and  this  time !  A  miracle, 

surely!  Gone  were  the  blue  shadows  and  the 
tired  lines  around  her  mouth!  Why,  she  didn't 
look  over  eighteen  years  old !  And  anyway,  was 
twenty- three  so  terribly  old?  Certainly  not.  It 
was  the  very  door  of  things! 

Zoe  hummed  a  little  song  as  she  tilted  her  hat 
at  the  most  rakish  angle,  adjusted  her  little 
round  lace  collar  and  pulled  on  her  brown 
jacket. 

"Think  over  that  cold  cream,  Miss  Bourne," 
Kane  called  out  to  her.  "See  if  you  can't  find 
some  new  angle  of  it  to  treat  in  the  papers." 

"I  will!"  sang  out  Zoe,  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. Her  ideas  were  necessary  to  the  firm! 
Thousands  of  dollars,  millions,  perhaps,  de- 
pended on  her  brain!  The  Cream  of  Fair 
Women!  How  stupendously  clever!  Wasn't  it 
splendid?  This,  now,  this  was  New  York. 

She  waited  a  long  time  for  the  elevator,  and 
Mr.  Kane  and  Cornell  joined  her  before  the  car 
actually  stopped.  Zoe  stole  a  look  at  the  latter. 
He  was  good  looking.  There  was  a  nice,  healthy 
look  about  him.  He  was — well,  the  sort  of  man 
one  married.    A  little  too  normal  to  be  really 


WHITHER  51 

interesting,  like  Mr.  Kane  was,  for  instance,  but 
— well,  he  was  good  looking. 

The  gentlemen  stood,  hats  in  hand,  waiting 
for  Zoe  to  enter  the  car.  Once  inside,  Kane 
turned  to  her. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Cornell?  Ah,  permit  me — 
Miss  Bourne,  Mr.  Cornell." 

Their  eyes  met  and  they  bowed.  Mr.  Kane, 
Mr.  Cornell  and  Miss  Bourne  fixed  their  eyes  on 
the  operator's  back.  The  car  shot  down  to  the 
main  floor. 

Zoe  found  Maisie  lounging  with  extravagant 
ease  on  Julie's  bed,  while  Julie  was  dashing 
madly  about  the  room,  preparing  for  her  dress 
rehearsal  in  New  Haven.  Zoe  tossed  her  wraps 
on  the  bed  and  sat  down. 

"What's  up?  Got  a  date?"  demanded  Maisie, 
lifting  her  head  from  her  two  clasped  hands. 
"Say,  Julie,  look  at  our  little  Zoe,  will  you? 
Looks  as  if  she'd  got  a  raise  or  worse." 

"I  can't  be  annoyed — too  many  troubles  of 
my  own."  Julie's  voice  came  muffled  from  the 
closet. 

Zoe  poured  out  her  story  to  Maisie's  aston- 
ished ears.  Julie,  herself,  stopped  with  a  frown 
in  the  midst  of  her  preparations. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  get  away  with  it?" 
she  demanded.  "You  can't  really  write,  can 
you?" 

"Of  course  I  can,"  somewhat  crossly  retorted 


52  WHITHER 

Zoe.  "And  I  have  ideas.  Ideas  are  the  main 
thing  in  advertising." 

Julie  said  nothing  more  but  secured  her  hat 
and  cloak  and  went  out  murmuring  something 
about  Alphonse  going  to  drive  her  over. 

"Good  luck.  Here's  hoping  Belasco  or  the 
Shuberts  go  over  and  see  you  work!"  called  Zoe; 
as  Julie,  a  flushed,  silent  Julie,  in  a  new  green 
suit,  started  out  the  hall  door. 

"Better  for  Julie  if  they  didn't,"  dryly 
observed  Maisie.  "Say,  about  that  promotion. 
I'll  say  you  fell  in  luck.  Mr.  Kane  is  a  queer 
duck,  though,  isn't  he?  They  say  he  works  a 
few  months  and  makes  a  lot  of  money.  The 
rest  of  the  time  he  bums  around  the  world,  until 
starvation  drives  him  to  work  again.  They  say 
his  wife  is  hopeless,  an  awful  highbrow.  It 
was  one  of  these  literary,  platonic  affairs  and 
they  fell  out  in  no  time  at  all.  I  guess  she  made 
him  spend  their  honeymoon  in  Brentano's." 

"Perhaps  she  prefers  him  to  have  a  steady 
income,"  suggested  Zoe.  It  annoyed  her, 
vaguely,  that  Kane  should  be  married. 

Maisie  pointed  warningly  to  Julie's  desk 
clock.  It  was  dinner  time.  Zoe  leaped  to  her 
feet. 

"Let's  hurry  down  before  Amy  Bruce  gets  me 
and  asks  me  to  go  out  with  her  tonight." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Maisie.  "She  goes  out 
alone  lately." 

Zoe  felt  discomfited.    She  had  fully  expected 


WHITHER  53 

to  have  Amy  after  her  every  minute  to  go  out 
walking  and  she  had  thought  of  all  kinds  of 
excuses  to  make.  But  Amy  had  seemed  to  avoid 
her  ever  since  that  night  at  Pelham  Heath.  She 
hadn't  taken  with  the  boys,  that  was  it.  She 
wasn't  pretty  or  lively  enough!  Zoe  had  no  par- 
ticular liking  for  either  of  the  two  men.  But  to 
have  them  dare  to  dislike  her.  Probably  they 
had  said  to  Amy,  "Don't  bring  her  next  time. 
She's  too  slow." 

Zoe  burned  at  the  thought. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Maisie,  get- 
ting up  finally. 

"Nothing.    Let's  go  down." 

At  dinner,  Zoe  saw  that  Amy  Bruce  was 
absent.  She  didn't  care.  What  were  Amy  and 
her  street  acquaintances  to  her?  She  told  Mrs. 
Home  of  her  good  luck  at  the  office.  The  lady 
beamed  rosily  and  patted  Zoe  on  the  arm. 

"Splendid,  my  dear,  splendid!  I  love  to  see 
my  girls  get  on.    Don't  I,  girls?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  feebly  encored  Miss  Tait. 
"I'm  sure  you  do,  Mrs.  Home." 

"Mrs.  Home  feels  exactly  as  I  do,"  Mrs. 
Shaw,  a  buxom,  glittering  divorcee  of  near  sixty, 
broke  in.  "I  know  when  my  daughter,  at  that 
time  chairman  of  the  Weehawken  Benjamin 
Franklin  Society,  one  of  the  most  exclusive  clubs 
in  Detroit,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
Hunters'  and  Riders'  Club — well,  when  my 
daughter — a  beautiful  girl,  as  Mrs.  Home  will 


54  WHITHER 

tell  you — used  to  say,  'Gertrude/  she'd  say — she 
always  called  me  Gertrude,  because,  she  said, 
we  were  more  pals  than  mother  and  daughter, 
and  it's  true,  too,  because  many  times  when 
she'd  have  a  young  man  calling,  he'd  say,  'Mrs. 
Shaw,'  he'd  say,  'you  know  you  seem  as  much 
of  a  girl  as  Lilian  is.'  Lilian  is  my  daughter. 
But,  as  I  said,  she'd  often  say  to  me,  'Gertrude, 
you  are  just  like  a  mirror  for  me.  I  tell  you  of 
my  successes,  and  it's  like  having  them  happen 
all  over  again.'    I  was  so  sympathetic,  you  see. 

"And  when,  oftentimes,  one  of  our  maids 
would  be  ill,  and  I'd  be  entertaining,  as  I  often 
did,  some  of  our  wealthy  friends  there  in  Detroit, 
many  of  them  worth  millions,  in  fact  far  more 
than  we  were,  why " 

"How  true!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Home,  courte- 
ously, her  eye  on  the  bread  tray,  which  was 
moored  to  Mrs.  Shaw's  plate.  "Ah — ah — Mrs. 
Shaw " 

" 1  would,  myself,  personally,  have  Haw- 
kins bring  one  of  the  closed  cars  and  drive  me 
to  her  home  and " 

"The  bread,  if  you  don't  mind,"  hissed  Mrs. 
Home.    "Yes,  indeed." 

" 'if  there's  anything,'  I'd  say,  'anything 

on  earth  that  can  be  done '  " 


"Yes,  the  bread,  if  it's  not  too  much  trouble." 
Mrs.  Home  spoke  louder. 

" 'if  you  are  in  want,'  I'd  say,  'anything 

that  human  power  can  do '  " 


WHITHER  55 

"The  bread!"  Mrs.  Home  was  insistent. 
Miss  Tait,  too,  looked  anxious. 

Mrs.  Shaw,  with  a  magnificently  jeweled 
hand,  swept  the  bread  plate  toward  Mrs.  Home. 
Zoe  found  Maisie 's  foot  frantically  kicking  hers 
under  the  table,  and  gulped. 

" 1  passed  Edgar  Guest  on  the  way — a 

charming  fellow,  the  poet,  you  know,  and  he 
said,  'Mrs.  Shaw,'  he  said " 

"The  butter,  please!"  demanded  Miss  Tait. 

Mrs.  Shaw  stopped  short.  Three  or  four  were 
leaving  the  table.  Mrs.  Home  was  looking  im- 
patient and  Miss  Tait  was  looking  hungry. 

"The  butter!"  repeated  Miss  Tait. 

Mrs.  Shaw  pushed  the  butter  toward  her  and 
rose,  her  long  nose  red  with  irritation  and  her 
beady  eyes  glittering. 

"I  forgot,"  she  said,  "that  in  this  house  food 
is  of  more  importance  than  conversation." 

"That  lady  said  a  faceful,"  vulgarly  remarked 
Maisie,  as  the  conversationalist  swept  out  of  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Home  gave  Zoe  a  fixed,  weary  smile. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said,  "we  are  so  glad  to 
hear  of  your  success." 

"Come  on,  Zoe,"  whispered  Maisie,  "before 
Mrs.  Shaw  comes  back  for  her  dessert." 

"After  glancing  at  her  memoirs  to  get  some 
new  anecdotes,"  added  one  of  the  little  blond 
art  students. 

Zoe  and  Maisie  hurried  away.    They  stopped 


56  WHITHER 

in  the  lobby  to  look  over  the  mail  and  so  saw 
Amy  Bruce  coming  in  the  front  door  with  a  man. 
Zoe  recognized  him  as  "Chuck."  He  nodded  to 
her,  aloofly,  and  Zoe,  flushed  and  annoyed,  hur- 
ried upstairs  to  avoid  Amy's  greeting. 


CHAPTER  V 

Quite  unexpectedly  Zoe  decided  to  call  on 
Allie  Merton  that  evening.  Maisie  had  begged 
her  to  go  to  the  movies,  but  Zoe  had  insisted 
that  the  eighty  cents  in  her  pocket  was  to  last 
her  for  the  next  three  days,  so  how  could  she  go 
anywhere. 

"We  could  get  cut-rate  theater  tickets  at 
Gray's,"  Maisie  suggested.  "I  have  two  dollars. 
Maybe  we  could  go  to  the  Follies." 

"I  don't  have  anything  to  wear,"  protested 
Zoe. 

"Say,  where  did  you  think  you  were  going  to 
sit?"  Maisie  cried,  indignantly.  "  Nobody  in 
this  house  ever  sits  in  front  of  the  top  gallery. 
The  back  row,  too.  I've  backed  half  of  the 
musical  comedies  of  the  season." 

Zoe  hesitated. 

"I  really  ought  to  look  up  Allie.  Here,  I've 
been  here  three  months  without  looking  her  up. 
We  went  to  school  together  in  Albon,  you  know, 
and  it  was  through  her  that  I  heard  of  Mrs. 
Home's." 

"Fania  says  she's  carrying  on  the  old  tradition 
of  Albon  home  life,"  giggled  Maisie.  "  Babies 
every  year,  and  sometimes  in  between.  Guess 
she  longs  for  the  old,  care-free  career  days. 

57 


58  WHITHER 

Husbands  are  all  right,  but  families  are  a  dif- 
ferent matter,  speaking  from  the  heart." 

"I'd  like  to  see  what  New  York  home  life  is," 
Zoe  said.  "And  I  ought  to  tell  Allie  about 
deciding  to  go  into  ad  writing  instead  of  doing 
general  office  work." 

Maisie  waved  her  hand  airily. 

"All  right.  Only  I  prefer  to  see  my  home  life 
from  the  movies.    It's  not  half  so  dull." 

Allie  would  be  astonished  at  her  good  luck, 
Zoe  reflected,  putting  on  her  hat.  She  had 
always  written  such  tales  of  success  to  Zoe, 
when  she  had  been  in  theatrical  publicity.  Now 
that  she  was  married  and  living  a  stupid, 
domestic  life  in  the  Bronx,  she  would  probably 
be  a  little  envious  of  Zoe's  rise.  But  that, 
in  itself,  would  be  a  tribute.  Zoe  decided  that 
she  wouldn't  gloat  over  Allie,  of  course,  now 
that  New  York  was  opening  its  door  to  her.  She 
would  simply  mention  her  promotion  casually, 
as  if  it  were  nothing  to  her. 

She  took  the  subway  up  to  the  queer  group  of 
little  towns  known  collectively  as  the  Bronx. 
Allie  lived  in  a  smugly  new  apartment  house. 
She  came  to  the  door  at  Zoe's  ring  and  pulled 
her  into  the  little  box  of  an  apartment,  her 
voice  shrill  with  excitement.  Zoe  felt  pleased 
and  magnanimous  at  having  the  power  to  bring 
such  pleasure. 

"And  you  never  met  Frank,  or  Junior,  or 
Betsey,  did  you?     Of  course  the  babies  are  in 


WHITHER  59 

bed,  but  pretty  soon  we'll  take  a  peek  at  them. 
Frank,  this  is  Zoe — you  remember  my  telling 
you  about  her." 

Frank,  pallid  and  academic  looking,  sat  under 
a  rosy,  Bronx-looking  floor  lamp,  reading  from 
some  weighty  tome.  He  smiled  a  faint  welcome 
to  Zoe  and  shook  her  hand  limply.  Allie,  plump 
and  very  obviously  wearing  a  maternity  dress 
which  didn't  show  a  thing,  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  soft  with  pride.  Zoe  had  a  fleeting  curiosity 
concerning  Allie's  choosing  Frank  instead  of  her 
three-thousand-dollar  job  in  publicity.  She  de- 
cided that  she  must  have  lost  her  job  first. 

She  answered  Allie's  questions  about  Albon 
and  Frank's  polite  query  about  her  work. 

"Bergman's?  That  Christopher  Kane  is  with 
them  now,  I  believe."  Frank's  voice  was  re- 
spectful. "Once  he  was  with  our  firm.  He's 
very  erratic.  Left  our  place  to  go  to  Iceland 
for  a  year." 

"Yes,    Mr.    Kane    and    I "   began    Zoe, 

proudly,  but  Allie  had  grasped  her  arm  and  was 
leading  her  toward  the  bedroom. 

"Back  in  a  moment,  dear.  Just  go  on  with 
your  reading." 

"About  my  job,  Allie,  I've  just " 

"Yes,  so  you  said.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  some- 
thing, Zoe."  Allie  switched  on  the  dresser  light 
in  the  tiny  bedroom,  and  leaned  toward  Zoe. 
significantly.  "I'm  going  to  have  another  baby 
in  May.    Isn't  it  wonderful?" 


60  WHITHER 

"Allie!     But  you've  got  two!" 

"I  know  it's  loads  of  work,"  nodded  Allie. 
"They'll  all  be  babies  at  once,  you  know.  Junior 
isn't  three  yet,  and  Betsey's  just  eighteen 
months.  But  I'm  crazy  to  have  another  little 
boy." 

"Oh,"  Zoe  said  weakly. 

"Julie  was  out  last  month  and  so  was  Enna 
— you  know  I  roomed  with  Enna  when  I  lived 
at  Mrs.  Home's— but  I  didn't  tell  them."  Allie 
twisted  her  mouth  resentfully.  "You  wouldn't 
believe  it,  Zoe,  but  before  the  babies  came,  all 
the  women  I  knew  would  be  so  pitying  about  it. 
Actually,  they'd  ask  me  if  I'd  tried  everything 
— this  fake  doctor  in  Jersey  and  all.  When  I 
told  them  I  wanted  babies — I  really  did,  too! 
— they  smiled  and  you  could  tell  they  didn't 
believe  me  at  all.  Julie  and  Enna  think  it's 
so  bourgeois  to  be  having  babies  all  the  time. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  they  think  one  gets  mar- 
ried for.    I  knew  what  I  wanted." 

Zoe  was  not  at  all  sure  she  did  not  consider 
a  baby  a  calamity  nowadays,  when  there  were 
so  many  fascinating  things  for  women  without 
responsibilities  to  do. 

"They  were  thinking  of  your  career,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"So  was  I,"  answered  Allie.  "I  knew  just 
exactly  where  I'd  be  in  ten  years  if  I  kept  on 
with  it.  A  hard-boiled  press  agent — a  human 
fish.    Anyway  I  didn't  take  it  up  as  a  life  work. 


WHITHER  61 

I  did  what  most  girls  do — took  something  to 
amuse  and  support  me  until  I  could  get  the  man 
I  wanted." 

Allie  was  so  cocksure  about  it,  as  if  she,  Zoe, 
was  working  merely  to  mark  time  until  she  too 
could  "get  the  man  she  wanted."  But  she  said 
merely:  "How  did  you  know  he  was  the  one  you 
wanted?" 

"Because,"  said  Allie,  "the  minute  I  saw  him 
I  wanted  to  have  a  dozen  of  his  babies,  all  of 
them  to  look  just  like  him." 

"Good  heavens,  Allie!" 

Allie  wagged  her  head  decidedly. 

"I'd  had  beaux  before,  but  never,  never  had  I 
felt  like  that.  I  was  like  Julie  and  the  rest  of 
Mrs.  Home's  girls,  babies  never  entered  into  my 
scheme  of  things.  I  thought  they  were  the 
things  that  spoiled  love.  And  when  I  had  this 
queer  feeling  about  wanting  to  have  babies  for 
Frank,  I  knew — I  simply  knew,  Zoe,  that  I 
must  have  him." 

"Are  you  still  just  as  sure?"  asked  Zoe, 
curiously. 

"Absolutely.  He  is  so  wonderful  to  me.  He's 
doing  very  well  now,  too.  He  is  a  commercial 
artist,  you  know.  Of  course  we  can't  have  lots 
of  things,  simply  because  of  the  children.  They 
take  so  much.  .  .  .  But,  Zoe,  Frank  and  I  are 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  we  must  perpetu- 
ate our  love.  People  laugh,  but  we  look  on  each 
baby  the  way  most  people  look  at  a  thousand 


62  WHITHER 

dollars  in  the  bank.  A  definite  achievement, 
you  know — a  safeguard  against  a  loveless  old 
age." 

She  looked  mistily  toward  the  nursery  door. 

"I  have  names  for  all  of  them,  too.  The 
next  one  will  be  Robert  and  then  Candace — I 
adore  that  name — and  then  Charles,  and  Felix 
and  Lisa.  .  .  .  They  have  such  funny  little 
faces,  Zoe,  when  they're  first  born.  They  bur- 
row in  your  arms  like  little  rabbits  and  their 
little  wet  mouths  fasten  on  to  anything  soft  they 
can  find,  just  like  leeches." 

Zoe  was  uncomfortable.  She  was  always 
embarrassed  when  she  felt  her  emotions  being 
swayed  to  something  sentimental  and  cloying 
and  she  felt  definitely,  as  Allie  talked,  that  she 
wanted  babies,  too.    It  was  a  disturbing  thought. 

"Suppose  you  let  me  see  the  nursery,"  she 
suggested.    "Then  I  must  run  along,  really." 

Allie,  tiptoeing,  led  the  way  to  the  nursery. 
It  was  the  room  originally  destined  for  the  liv- 
ing room,  but  the  passionate  parents  had  sacri- 
ficed it  to  the  children.  Allie  lit  a  small  night 
lamp  for  an  instant,  revealing  the  two  white 
beds,  an  enormous,  beady-eyed  teddy  bear,  a 
slightly  lopsided  toy  wheelbarrow  and  a  shadowy 
wall  of  shelved  toys.  Zoe  followed  her  to  the 
baby's  bed,  where  Betsey,  or  a  round  face, 
chubby  fist  and  patch  of  black  hair,  representing 
all  that  was  visible  of  Betsey  above  her  blankets, 
slept. 


WHITHER  63 

"Ah,"  Zoe  whispered,  vaguely  resentful  of  the 
tug  at  her  emotions. 

"Here's  Junior." 

Junior,  a  sprawling  miniature  of  Frank,  had 
to  be  collected  and  put  under  the  covers.  Zoe 
praised  him  and  Allie  looked  plumply  virtuous. 

They  came  out  again.  Frank  offered  to  go 
out  and  get  ice  cream,  but  Zoe  protested  that 
she  must  get  home  at  once.  She  had  very  im- 
portant things  to  do  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing. You  see  now  she  had  a  great  deal  of 
responsiblity  as  copy  writer  and 

"She  thought,"  said  Allie,  gently,  "that  Frank 
looked  like  you." 

Frank  looked  as  pleased  and  astonished  as  if 
no  one  had  ever  mentioned  the  resemblance 
before,  as  if,  Zoe  thought  spitefully,  he  were  the 
last  person  on  earth  the  baby  would  be  expected 
to  resemble. 

Zoe  hurried  into  her  hat  and  coat.  She  was 
disgusted  with  them  and  their  preoccupation 
with  their  own  affairs.  They  had  not  given 
her  the  slightest  chance  to  tell  what  she  had 
come  up  expressly  to  tell — that  she  had  taken  up 
an  advertising  career,  that  she  really  was  in 
charge  of  the  Voorhees  Cold  Cream  account  and 
that  it  was  nothing — nothing  at  all. 

"Old  married  pigs,"  she  told  herself,  viciously, 
all  the  while  smiling  politely  and  making  pleas- 
ant adieus.  "Self-satisfied  and  uninterested  in 
everything  but  themselves.    It's  vanity,  that's 


64  WHITHER 

all  it  is,  that  makes  them  want  to  have  dozens  of 
babies  just  like  themselves.  They  might,  at 
least,  have  asked  me  how  I  was  getting  on. 
Allie  always  was  egotistical." 

"And  next  time,  you  must  tell  me  all  about 
your  work  and  how  you  like  Mrs.  Home's," 
begged  Allie,  leaning  snugly  against  Frank. 

"I  will,"  promised  Zoe,  adding,  mentally, 
"Yes,  after  me,  you  first." 

She  went  down  the  stairs,  grumbling  to  her- 
self all  the  way  to  the  subway.  Of  course  she 
did  like  Allie  and  she  was  glad  she  was  happy, 
but.  .  .  .  She  wondered  if  there  was  anything 
in  this  baby  idea  that  Allie  had.  Would  she 
ever  feel  like  that?  She  was  certain  none  of 
the  other  girls  at  Mrs.  Home's  did.  She  had  a 
disgusting  conviction  that  Allie  was  right.  .  .  . 
Everybody  ought  to  have  babies. 

She  got  on  the  train  and  chuckled  spas- 
modically to  find  her  mind  unconsciously  re- 
phrasing Allie 's  words  into  advertising  lingo. 

BABIES! 

The  Love  Perpetuators! 

Burrowing  into  Your  Heart!     Sliding  into 

Your  Soul! 

Every  Baby  Represents  a  Thousand  Dollars 

in  the  Bank  of  Love! 

begin  today! 

"And  then  a  poster,"  mused  Zoe,  "saying: 
'A  Baby  a  Year  Keeps  the  Doctor.'  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon  and  Maisie,  all 
dressed  up  in  her  new  winter  hat  and  new  shoes, 
had  been  pleading  for  some  one  to  go  out  with 
her.  Zoe  was  lying  on  her  bed  and  Julie  was  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  her  thorough  cosmetic  treat- 
ments. 

"Constance  Talmadge  is  up  at  the  Adelphi. 
And  Joe  Cook's  at  the  Riverside,"  encouraged 
Maisie,  looking  hopefully  from  one  to  the  other. 
"You've  no  idea  how  funny  he  is.  He's  the  one 
that  imitates  the  four  Hawaiians  playing  the 
ukalilly.    And  then  he " 

"Hate  vaudeville!"  retorted  Julie,  her  face 
smothered  in  a  huge  wet  towel. 

"Too  tired.  Got  to  rest,"  said  Zoe,  placidly. 
"You  know  I  worked  late  last  night.  Mr.  Cornell 
and  Mr.  Kane  and  I  had  to  finish  up  an  ad 
series  that  had  to  get  to  the  printer  by  seven  this 
morning.    It  was  after  eleven  when  I  got  home." 

"Which  one  brought  you  home?"  asked  Julie, 
idly.    "Your  Mr.  Kane  sounds  interesting." 

"He's  married,"  said  Maisie,  impatiently. 
"And  here  it  is  three  o'clock,  a  wonderful  day, 
and  you  two  things  stick  around  the  house  like 
a  couple  of  what-nots.  Take  a  walk  up  Broad- 
way anyway,  Zoe." 

"I  came  home  alone,"  Zoe  answered  Julie. 
65 


66  WHITHER 

"They  put  me  on  a  bus  at  Twenty-fifth  Street 
and  I  told  them  I'd  be  perfectly  all  right." 

"I  love  the  way  you  pass  up  your  opportuni- 
ties," said  Julie,  tossing  the  towel  into  a  basin 
of  ice  water  and  then  pressing  it  against  her 
face  and  neck  until  they  were  fiery  red. 

Maisie  disgustedly  threw  off  her  hat  and  sat 
down  in  the  wicker  rocker. 

"  'Spose  I'll  have  to  invite  Enna.  .  .  .  No, 
I'll  stay  in.  Say,  if  you  two  won't  go  out,  I 
won't  answer  for  myself.  I'm  likely  to  go  out 
and  pick  up  some  old  boy  and  go  down  to  the 
Ritz  for  supper." 

"Wish  you  luck,"  languidly  answered  Julie. 
She  was  patting  into  her  face  a  sort  of  beauty 
mask  of  clay  and  grimaced  at  her  image  in  the 
mirror. 

One  of  the  older  art  students,  Fania  Tell, 
looked  in  the  door  and  then  came  in. 

"Just  came  down  to  pay  Mrs.  Home  while  my 
allowance  lasts,"  she  said.  "She  isn't  in  and  that 
means  I'll  go  out  and  spend  it  all  in  about  ten 
minutes." 

"Give  it  to  Maisie  and  she'll  save  it  for  you," 
suggested  Julie,  her  face  now  completely  covered 
with  the  gray  mud.  "Maisie's  the  only  tight- 
wad in  the  house." 

"I  like  that!"  indignantly  cried  Maisie.  "Me 
supporting  the  lot  of  you,  too.  I  may  be  a  tight- 
wad but  I  notice  that  I'm  the  only  one  who  ever 
has  anything  to  lend." 


WHITHER  67 

"It's  true,"  Zoe  agreed  from  the  bed. 
"Maisie's  the  only  person  in  the  house  who 
loans  money.  Every  one  else  shuts  up  like  a 
clam  at  the  mere  mention  of  a  loan."  She  was 
silent  a  moment  and  then,  "I  think  if  you  were 
starving  and  the  girls  knew  it,  they  wouldn't 
loan  anything  for  fear  they'd  have  to  do  without 
a  marcel  that  week." 

"Getting  personal?" 

Julie's  voice  sounded  aggressive  and  Zoe  has- 
tened to  reassure  her. 

"Merely  generalizing,  Julie.  But  look  at 
Enna,  who  has  so  much,  and  nothing  to  spend  it 
on  except  her  music  lessons  and  clothes.  And 
Olive  Tanhill,  who  never  does  anything  but  buy 
clothes  and  take  Turkish  baths  and  go  to  the 
theater,  studying  contemporary  drama,  as  she 
says!  They  wouldn't  give  a  starving  friend  a 
quarter.  Yet  they  all  manage  to  pamper  them- 
selves without  doing  a  stroke  of  work." 

"They're  artists,"  giggled  Maisie.  "Olive's 
supposed  to  be  an  actress,  only  she's  never  been 
on  the  stage.  Just  looks  in  a  manager's  office  a 
couple  of  times  a  year  to  see  if  she's  needed  to 
take  Julia  Marlowe's  place.  And  Enna — say, 
what  I  know  about  that  girl,  my  friends." 

"What?" 

Maisie  looked  inexpressibly  wise. 

"I  don't  know  yet,  but  I  don't  think  you  could 
convince  a  jury  with  that  Boston  mama  story. 


68  WHITHER 

I  saw  a  check  on  her  desk  and  a  note  that  looked 
mighty  funny,  yesterday." 

"What  were  you  doing  in  her  desk?"  de- 
manded Zoe. 

"Snooping,"  cheerfully  answered  Maisie. 

"I  think  I  know,"  Fania  Tell  said  slowly. 
"A  former  fiance,  or  some  one " 

"Blackmail!"  whispered  Maisie,  significantly. 
"Enna's  having  a  career  on  blood  money!" 

"I  knew  it!"  nodded  Julie,  triumphantly. 

"They  were  engaged  and  he  backed  out  and 
wanted  to  marry  some  one  else,"  said  Fania. 
"But  Enna,  it  appears,  refused  to  get  out  of  the 
way  without  a  consideration." 

"Right,"  admitted  Maisie.  "I  gather  from 
my — ahem — investigations  that  his  people  are 
very  rich  and  move  in  circles." 

"So  prim  little  Enna  has  a  past,"  gloated  Julie. 
"How  refreshing!" 

"I'd  rather  pay  her  than  marry  her,"  observed 
Fania. 

Zoe  was  speechless.  That  such  things  could 
happen  under  one's  very  nose!  And  Enna,  of 
all  people.  Zoe  shivered.  It  was  so  close  that 
it  might  almost  have  been  herself  in  Enna's 
boots. 

"What  will  Mrs.  Home  do  if  she  hears?" 
she  asked. 

"Pooh!  She  knows.  She  could  probably  give 
you  the  name  of  the  man,"  declared  Fania.  She 
rose  from  the  end  of  the  bed  where  she  had  been 


WHITHER  69 

sitting.  "I  have  to  get  some  sketches  touched 
up  for  my  dress  design  class.  I  have  a  stunning 
idea.    I'm  sure  Mr.  Hartwell  will  like  it." 

She  picked  up  a  piece  of  manuscript  paper 
from  Zoe's  desk  and  began  sketching.  Her  lines 
were  not  particularly  striking  and  Zoe  was  sur- 
prised. It  was  just  the  sort  of  sketch  any  one 
might  have  done,  artist  or  no  artist. 

"Good  looking,"  approved  Maisie,  studying 
the  paper  over  Fania's  shoulder.  "Fania,  you'll 
land  at  Lucile's  yet  as  chief  designer." 

"Perhaps,"  Fania  laughed,  self-consciously. 
"I'm  going  to  fix  up  my  original  now.  Come  on 
up  and  I'll  show  you  some  more  of  my  designs." 

She  was  gone  and  Julie  sniffed. 

"Did  anybody  see  the  gold  and  sapphire  dress 
in  Hagedorn's  window  this  week?  Well,  that's 
Fania's  original  design." 

"Cat!" 

"It's  true,"  insisted  Julie.  "And  the  rest  of 
her  creations  she  copies  right  out  of  the  fashion 
magazines  or  shop  windows.  She's  a  nice  girl, 
but  she's  a  cheat.  She  can't  design  and  she 
can't  even  draw." 

"I  was  surprised  that  a  real  artist  should  make 
such  a  smeary  drawing,"  confessed  Zoe.  "But 
perhaps  she's  just  as  much  the  real  thing  in  her 
way  as  the  rest  of  us  are  in  ours." 

"It's  a  house  of  failures,"  said  Julie,  bitterly. 
"You're  right.  We're  a  fine  lot  to  criticize  each 
other." 


70  WHITHER 

Zoe  and  Maisie  were  silent,  thinking  of  Julie's 
latest  theatrical  job.  The  play  had  been  dis- 
carded after  two  performances  in  New  Haven. 
Julie's  part  had  been  conspicuously  badly  played 
and,  sensing  the  fact,  she  had  been  depressed 
ever  since. 

"They  may  all  be  failures,"  observed  Maisie, 
"but  none  of  them  know  it,  so  it  doesn't  make 
any  difference.  I  suppose  they  all  have  a  little 
pet  idea — I  know  I  do — that  they're  right  on  the 
verge  of  a  big  killing,  and  they  keep  going  on 
and  on,  right  in  a  circle.  They  think  there'll 
be  a  corner  pretty  soon  with  the  Great  Surprise 
behind  it.  Any  fool  knows,  though,  that  circles 
don't  have  corners." 

"You'd  think,"  said  Zoe,  without  diplomacy, 
"that  after  a  girl  was  twenty-five  and  nothing 
had  happened  yet,  she'd  realize  she  was  pretty 
commonplace  and  quit  fooling  herself." 

"Twenty-five!"  exclaimed  Julie,  irritatedly. 
"Don't  be  childish,  Zoe.  I  admit  that  she  ought 
to  know  by  thirty-five,  but  twenty-five  is  only 
the  beginning  of  things." 

Zoe  shuddered. 

"I  always  thought  that  by  the  time  I  was 
twenty-five  I  would  have  reached  the  crossroads 
and  turned  the  corner  to  somewhere — very  defi- 
nitely, you  know.  I'd  die  right  now  if  I  thought 
I  wouldn't  know  for  another  twelve  years." 

"Of  course,"  Maisie  said,  insolently,  "Miss 
Tait  tells  me  that  she  considers  sixty  the  turning 


WHITHER  71 

point  in  a  girl's  career.  She  will  know  then 
whether  she's  going  to  keep  drumming  away  at 
library  stuff  or  write  movie  scenarios." 

"Or  get  a  man,"  Julie  was  sarcastic.  "That's 
always  an  exciting  alternative  to  becoming  a 
great  artist.  When  you  see  failure  ahead,  the 
thing  to  do  is  to  become  some  man's  wife  or 
mistress.  At  least  have  something  happen.  I've 
known  girls  to  do  just  that — merely  for  the 
sake  of  feeling  important." 

"Enna  must  have  felt  important  once,"  Maisie 
said. 

"How  old  is  Enna  now?"  idly  asked  Zoe. 

"About  thirty  or  so,  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Julie 
replied. 

Maisie  gave  Zoe  a  knowing  kick,  but  Zoe  was 
too  startled  to  heed  it.  Julie — thirty!  Why, 
thirty  was  the  old  maid's  age.  People  were  in 
the  rut  they  intended  to  live  in  by  the  time  they 
were  thirty.  Yet  here  was  Julie  and  the  rest  of 
the  girls — irresponsible,  uncertain,  as  wavering 
as  if  they  were  barely  eighteen  and  had  years  to 
decide  what  to  do  with  themselves.  And  she, 
Zoe,  had  now  joined  the  same  blind,  faltering 
crew.  Would  she  be  like  that  at  thirty?  Fum- 
bling opportunities  because  they  meant  work  or 
sacrifice,  not  sure  whether  fame  meant  happi- 
ness anyway,  and  always  waiting,  waiting  for  the 
great  earthquake  that  would  bring  her  the  vague 
thing  she  wanted? 

Zoe  looked  at  Julie.     Julie's  face,  the  clay 


72  WHITHER 

removed,  was  as  pink  and  smooth  as  a  young 
girl's  and  her  neck  and  arms  were  roundly  per- 
fect. She  didn't  even  look  as  old  as  Maisie, 
and  Maisie  was  only  twenty.  Of  course,  Maisie 
was  a  mousy  person  who  probably  would  look 
the  same  from  fifteen  to  forty.  But  it  was 
amazing  to  see  the  way  Julie  nourished  her 
youth. 

"I  was  thinking  you  don't  even  look  twenty- 
five,"  Zoe  apologized  for  her  earnest  scrutiny. 

"Stuff!"  scoffed  Julie,  and  Zoe  caught  a 
glimpse  of  an  oddly  old  look  in  her  eyes. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  offered  Maisie,  "most  girls 
come  to  the  great  city  not  because  of  art  but 
because  of  the  temptations,  from  the  way  most 
of  them  chase  after  it.  You  know,  yourself, 
Julie,  that  you  and  Fania  and  Marg  never  think 
of  going  out  without  being  prepared  for  a  pos- 
sible seduction.  Defending  yourself  with  your 
best  chiffon  lingerie  and  so  on." 

Julie  laughed  uncontrollably.  She  began 
combing  her  yellow  hair. 

"It's  dangerous,  too,"  pursued  Maisie.  "If 
you  ask  me,  girls,  I'd  say  that  it  wasn't  morals 
but  flannel  underwear  that  makes  girls  keep 
their  heads.  I'm  going  to  start  a  Flannel  Rage 
when  I  get  to  be  an  old  and  respectable  lady. 
You  know  you  can't  keep  nonsense — this  arty 
nonsense  for  one  thing — in  your  head,  when 
you've  got  a  flannel  petticoat  on." 

"The  thought  makes  me  shudder,"  laughed 


WHITHER  73 

Julie.  "And  you  needn't  bother  your  little  head 
about  me,  Maisie.  My  chiffons  haven't  come  up 
to  the  seduction  standard  yet.  But  then,  my 
standard  is  very  high." 

"I  think,"  said  Zoe,  conscious  of  an  irresistible 
need  for  fresh  air,  "I'll  go  out  with  Maisie." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  show  Broadway  my  new 
clothes.  I'll  bet  I  knock  'em  cold,"  Maisie  said, 
admiring  herself  in  Julie's  mirror.  "Come  on, 
Zoe." 

But  Mrs.  Home,  coming  in  at  that  moment  to 
see  Zoe,  made  Maisie  go  out  alone.  Zoe  was 
rather  glad,  for  she  really  wanted  to  be  alone 
by  the  river  and  wonder  about  the  queer  phi- 
losophies one  learned  in  New  York.  She  walked 
out,  after  Mrs.  Home  left,  and  strolled  bare- 
headed along  the  Drive.  Somehow  these  discus- 
sions oppressed  her  and  left  her  with  pessimistic 
doubts  of  her  own  ability  to  meet  life  gallantly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Maisie  was  the  Queen  of  the  May  these  days 
at  Mrs.  Home's,  because  Maisie  had  suddenly 
acquired  a  millionaire. 

On  a  certain  Saturday  afternoon,  in  fact,  on 
the  very  day  she  had  besought  Zoe  and  Julie 
to  take  a  walk  with  her,  she  had  gone  into 
Evart's  Drug  Store  for  her  Saturday  celebra- 
tion of  a  frosted  chocolate.  The  soda  fountain 
was  not  popular  as  it  had  been  in  the  earlier 
months,  and  Maisie  found  a  man  and  herself 
the  only  patrons.  He  was  a  stoutish  young  man, 
well  dressed,  with  a  sturdy  little  blond  mous- 
tache as  his  chief  claim  to  beauty.  He  was 
disconsolately  sipping  a  sarsaparilla  through  a 
straw,  when  Maisie  accidentally  caught  his 
glance  in  the  fountain  mirror.  His  eye  became 
hopeful.    He  came  up  to  her. 

"Don't  you  want  one  of  those  little  log-cabin 
candy  boxes?"  he  inquired,  eagerly. 

"I'll  take  one,  thanks,"  answered  Maisie, 
dryly,  "as  I  leave." 

She  lifted  her  soda  glass  and  drained  the  last 
of  her  chocolate.  When  she  turned  to  slide 
down  the  stool,  she  was  amazed  to  see  the  man 
extending  one  of  the  five-pound  candy  boxes 
to  her.    He  looked  anxious. 

74 


WHITHER  75 

"Say,  where  do  you  get  that  way?"  demanded 
Maisie,  unwilling  to  be  taken  in. 

"I — I  thought  you'd  like  it,"  he  said,  ag- 
grievedly.  "I  just  bought  it  for  you.  I — well, 
the  fact  is  I  got  word  this  morning  that  I  have 
a  million  dollars.  It's  in  fruit  down  in  Central 
America.  The  only  relative  I  had  in  the  world 
— a  great  uncle — died  and  it  all  came  to  me. 
A  million  dollars." 

Maisie's  jaw  dropped.  She  thrust  out  her 
hand  and  pumped  his  warmly. 

"Say,  I — I  think  that's  great,"  she  cried, 
earnestly.  "That's  wonderful.  A  whole  million. 
Say!  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  Gee, 
I'll  bet  you  were  knocked  silly  when  you 
heard." 

The  millionaire  beamed  happily. 

"You  bet  I  was.  I — well,  I  wanted  to  rush 
out  and  tell  everybody.  Only  I  didn't  know  a 
soul  in  New  York.  I  didn't  have  anybody  to 
wire  to.  You  see  I've  been  to  sea  for  the  last 
four  years — just  finished  my  hitch,  and  say,  I 
was  nearly  crazy.  I  tried  to  tell  the  bell-hop 
and  the  night  clerk  at  my  hotel  and  they  almost 
threw  me  out.  Wouldn't  believe  me.  I  went 
into  a  store  and  told  a  corset  saleslady — first 
person  I  saw  that  looked  nice — and  she  thought 
I  was  kidding.  Nobody  would  believe  me.  I 
felt  blue.  No  fun  having  a  windfall  if  nobody 
will  take  your  word  for  it." 

"Sure,"  Maisie  was  sympathetic.     "I  think 


76  WHITHER 

it's  fine,  though.  Simply  wonderful.  Is  that 
why  you  bought  the  candy?" 

"Yes.  I  thought  you  looked  as  if  you — well, 
as  if  you  were  the  kind  that  would  believe  a 
fellow.  I'm  awfully  glad  you  did.  Now  I  begin 
to  feel  as  if  I  really  were  a  millionaire.  I  want 
you  to  take  this  candy  and  then  maybe  you'll 
remember  me  next  time  I  blow  in  town." 

"Of  course  I'll  remember  you,"  Maisie  warmly 
assured  him.  "I  don't  meet  millionaires  every 
day.  My  name's  Maisie  Colburn,  and  here's 
my  address." 

"Tom  Barrett  is  my  name."  They  walked 
out  of  the  drug  store  together  and  the  million- 
aire took  Maisie  home.  He  was  leaving  for 
Washington,  he  said,  right  away,  but  when  he 
came  back  he  wanted  Maisie  to  go  on  a  party 
with  him. 

But  when  Maisie  told  her  tale  to  the  girls, 
she  had  the  same  experience  that  her  new  friend 
had.    Nobody  believed  her. 

"I  don't  think  Maisie  is  kidding.  I  think  some- 
body's kidding  her,"  protested  Zoe.  "Maisie, 
the  invulnerable,  has  been  taken  in  by  some 
Corn-Belt  drummer." 

"It's  a  wonder  he  didn't  take  you  right 
down  to  the  St.  Regis  for  tea,"  scoffed  Julie. 
"Honestly,  Maisie,  you  didn't  believe  all  that 
rot,  did  you?  Why,  I  think  that  every  man 
who's  tried  to  pick  me  up  for  the  last  ten  years 
has  just  inherited  a  million." 


WHITHER  77 

"They  may  all  have  told  the  truth.  How  do 
you  know?"  calmly  returned  Maisie.  "It's 
funny,  girls,  but  do  you  know  it  never  struck 
me  at  all  that  he  might  be  lying?" 

Then  for  several  days  the  thing  was  to  tease 
Maisie  about  her  millionaire,  until  one  Friday 
night,  two  weeks  later,  the  telephone  rang  during 
the  dinner  hour.  There  was  the  usual  tense 
silence  as  Clematia  answered  it.  Girls  who 
wanted  to  pretend  that  they,  at  least,  had  no 
false  hopes,  tried  to  open  feverish  conversation 
with  impatient  others  who  were  sure  the  call 
was  for  them. 

"Julie,  of  course,"  Amy  Bruce  muttered, 
although  Amy  herself  had  had  a  number  of 
calls  lately. 

But  it  proved  to  be  Maisie's  millionaire,  invit- 
ing her  to  dine  with  him  the  following  evening 
at  the  Ritz. 

"Take  a  hat  pin  along,  Maisie,"  warned  Olive 
Tanhill.  "You  never  can  tell  about  these  fel- 
lows." 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  going,"  declared  Enna. 

But  Maisie  had  no  thought  of  refusing. 

The  next  afternoon  Zoe  and  Julie  and  Fania 
gathered  in  Julie's  room  for  the  express  purpose 
of  making  Maisie  presentable  for  the  Ritz. 

"The  first  thing  is  to  do  something  about 
your  hair,"  Julie  declared  critically.  "I  don't 
want  to  offend  you,  Maisie,  but  your  hair  is  the 
worst  thing  about  you.     It's  so  skimpy  and 


78  WHITHER 

straight  and  the  color  is  all  wrong.  It  ought 
to  be  hennaed  outright  instead  of  staying  that 
rust  color.    Don't  you  think  so,  Zoe?" 

"I'd  hate  to  henna  it."  Zoe  had  a  provincial 
weakness  for  letting  alone  the  unfortunate 
features  with  which  one  was  born.  "Anyway,  it 
seems  to  me  that  Maisie's  complexion  isn't  right 
for  hennaed  hair.  It  ought  to  be  yellow.  The 
hair,  I  mean." 

"Why  not  run  out  right  now  and  have  it 
blondined?"  suggested  Fania. 

"I  should  say  not,"  exclaimed  Julie.  "She's 
not  a  blonde  type.  She  simply  has  to  have  it 
hennaed.  She'll  look  a  different  person.  I'll 
give  you  a  wonderful  facial  and  make  you  all 
up,  Maisie,  and,  with  your  hennaed  hair,  you'll 
look  like  a  Follies  beauty." 

Maisie  was  docile,  but  uncertain  whose  ideas 
to  follow. 

"Zoe  says  it  ought  to  be  yellow,"  she  de- 
murred. "Still,  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with 
it.  I  do  want  to  look  pretty.  What  shall  I 
do  about  an  evening  dress?" 

"Leave  that  to  us,"  sternly  reprimanded  Julie. 
"The  hair's  the  thing  now.  It  ought  to  be 
hennaed,  and  you  ought  to  trot  right  over  this 
minute  and  have  it  done.    I'll  call  up  Dixon's." 

"Oh,  Julie,  she  hasn't  the  eyebrows  or  com- 
plexion for  hennaed  hair,"  chorused  Zoe  and 
Fania.    "She'd  look  terrible." 

The  argument  that  followed  anent  Maisie's 


WHITHER  79 

possibilities  as  a  blonde  lasted  half  an  hour. 
Finally  Julie,  in  exasperation,  turned  to  Maisie. 

"Maisie,  for  heaven's  sake,  haven't  you  any 
ideas  on  the  subject?" 

Maisie  pondered.     Finally  she  was  inspired. 

"I  know!"  she  cried,  "let's  wash  it." 

Strangely  enough,  the  shampoo  which  imme- 
diately followed  her  inspiration  had  most  grati- 
fying results.  Her  hair,  under  Julie's  electric 
curler,  became  a  sandy  mop  of  gleaming  curls, 
clipped  very  short,  barely  below  the  ears.  Julie's 
promised  facial  treatment  was  equally  satis- 
factory, and  Maisie  emerged  as  Julie  had 
prophesied,  quite  a  different  person. 

While  Zoe  and  Fania  went  around  to  every 
one's  room,  pleading  for  an  evening  dress  for 
Maisie,  Julie  was  stuffing  cotton  in  the  toes  of 
her  own  evening  slippers  in  order  that  they 
might  fit  Maisie. 

"They're  a  little  wobbly,"  Maisie  admitted, 
standing  in  her — or  rather  Fania's — pink  silk 
knickers  and  vest  with  Julie's  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, before  the  long  mirror,  "but  they  do  look 
nice." 

"They  look  too  big,"  Julie  stated,  "but  they'll 
have  to  do.  I  hope  they  get  a  decent  dress 
for  you.  That  one  of  mine  looks  like  two  of 
you.  Too  bad  Zoe  doesn't  have  any.  Hers 
might  fit  you." 

Zoe  and  Fania  had  no  luck.  The  dresses 
offered  were  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  could 


80  WHITHER 

wear  with  a  Ritz  millionaire,  and  those  who  had 
the  right  kind  of  dresses  were  not  the  lending 
sort. 

"Enna's  not  home,"  mused  Julie.  "There's 
her  blue  velvet.  It's  too  tight  for  me,  so  it 
might  fit  you.  I'll  go  over  there  and  look  for 
it.  It's  short  even  on  Enna.  I  think  we  could 
fix  it." 

But  a  search  did  not  reveal  it.  Julie  sought 
out  Clematia  and  returned  triumphantly  with  a 
suit  box,  which  she  opened,  revealing  the  sap- 
phire-blue velvet. 

"She  had  left  it  with  Clematia  to  go  to  the 
cleaner's.  But  it  really  isn't  dirty,  not  half 
so  bad,  at  least,  as  it  will  be."  She  held  it  up 
to  Maisie  and  then  slipped  it  over  her  head. 

"Stunning!"  Fania  and  Zoe  said  breathlessly, 
while  Maisie  looked  with  silent  awe  at  her  new 
image  in  the  mirror.  The  blue  was  exactly  the 
right  color  for  her  and  her  hair  took  on  a  new 
charm  in  contrast. 

"Your  shoulders  are  a  little  too  skinny  for 
velvet,"  Julie  stood  back  critically,  "but  you 
won't  notice  that  under  soft  lights.  The  dress 
fits  like  a  glove.  Enna  ought  to  give  it  to  you. 
She  looks  absolutely  rotten  in  blue.  No,  don't 
take  it  off.  It's  five-thirty  already  and  your 
little  millionaire  is  calling  at  six.  What  for,  God 
knows.    Nobody  dines  before  seven — ever." 

Maisie  turned  anxiously  to  Zoe. 

"You  tell  me  the  truth,  Zoe.    Do  I  really  look 


WHITHER  81 

all  right  and  not  like  some  kid  dressed  up  in 
Salvation  Army  clothes?    I  feel  like  a  fool." 

"Maisie,  you  look  like  an  heiress,"  Zoe  told 
her  candidly.  "I  never  guessed  you  were  such 
a  knockout." 

"Let  me  rest  now,  until  he  comes,"  pleaded 
Maisie,  worn  out  by  the  preparations. 

"Not  until  we've  located  an  evening  cloak," 
said  Julie. 

Another  expedition  followed  to  the  four  cor- 
ners of  Mrs.  Home's.  But  again,  those  who  had 
evening  cloaks  made  various  excuses.  Those 
who  had  none  gladly  proffered  mackinaws  and 
sweaters.  Maisie  herself  returned  dubiously 
from  the  top  floor  with  a  plaid  sport  coat.  Julie 
fairly  snapped  at  her. 

"But  she  told  me  I  was  welcome  to  it,"  whim- 
pered Maisie. 

"That's  the  way  of  it,"  agreed  Fania,  "and 
you  have  to  take  it,  Julie.  You  can't  very  well 
say,  'Sorry,  old  thing,  but  this  is  a  lousy  looking 
old  number,'  after  you've  asked  a  girl  for  just 
any  old  thing  in  foolish  hope  that  she'll  be 
decent  enough  to  offer  her  sables.  Still,  that 
little  model  there  is  a  bit  gay  for  this  affair.  I 
don't  remember  ever  getting  anything  quite  that 
bad." 

Julie  was  disturbed.  Enna's  evening  wraps 
had  suddenly  disappeared  from  her  shelves  since 
Julie's  last  borrowing,  so  that  nothing  could  be 
expected  from  that  quarter.    It  was  getting  on 


82  WHITHER 

toward  six,  too.  She  inspected  her  own  ward- 
robe, and  then  Zoe's,  without  result. 

"You  have  to  have  an  evening  cloak,  or  you 
can't  go.  .   .   .  Wait." 

She  held  out  the  black  velvet  curtain  on  the 
closet  door,  calculatingly,  and  the  next  moment 
had  ripped  it  from  the  pole.  She  draped  it  over 
Maisie's  shoulder  with  singular  effectiveness. 

"About  a  dozen  stitches  and  that  squirrel  fur 
piece  of  Enna's  and  we'll  have  a  cape  that  will 
make  your  millionaire's  eyes  pop  out,"  Julie 
promised,  threading  her  needle.  "I'm  only  sorry 
I  didn't  think  of  this  for  myself  the  other  night. 
Fania,  run  over  to  Enna's  room  and  get  her 
fur.  She  keeps  it  under  the  mattress  in  the 
quaint  belief  that  I  can't  find  it." 

By  six  o'clock,  Maisie  was  such  a  vision  that 
her  three  creators  felt  truly  repaid  for  their 
afternoon's  labors.  Tom  Barrett  had  sent  a 
limousine  with  the  announcement  that  he  would 
meet  her  at  the  Ritz.  Maisie  tiptoed,  awestruck 
at  her  own  beauty,  down  the  stairs.  Julie  hissed 
advice  from  the  landing.  Once  inside  the  hotel, 
Julie  commanded,  Maisie  was  to  go  at  once  to 
the  cloak  room  and  powder  and  rouge  to  make 
up  for  the  bloom  she  may  have  lost  on  the  way 
down. 

This  advice  Maisie  religiously  followed,  with- 
out looking  to  right  or  left  to  see  if  her  million- 
aire had  already  arrived.  She  was  the  only  one 
in  the  cloak  room  and,  after  her  cosmetic  repairs, 


WHITHER  83 

she  stood  before  the  mirror  for  a  long  time, 
practicing  various  smiles,  arch  glances,  and 
dignified  poses,  in  an  earnest  attempt  to  find 
one  that  would  be  suitable  to  greet  a  millionaire. 
Achieving  an  unusually  aristocratic  smirk,  she 
went  out  into  the  lobby  and  ran  directly  into 
Tom  Barrett. 

"What  were  you  making  all  those  faces  for?" 
he  asked  her,  curiously. 

Maisie  started. 

"The  curtain  was  open  and  I  could  see  your 
face  in  the  mirror,"  he  explained. 

Maisie  laughed  hysterically. 

"Just  some  exercises,"  she  said,  mysteriously, 
"for  double  chin." 

After  the  dinner  there  was  "Lightnin',"  but 
Maisie  couldn't  enjoy  the  play  properly. 

"You  can't  really  see  when  you're  so  close," 
she  confided  to  Tom.  "Seeing  the  ceiling  of  the 
stage  instead  of  the  floor  upsets  me." 

Tom  chuckled. 

"I  used  to  sit  in  heaven  when  I  was  with  the 
outfit  and  got  into  town  on  leave,"  he  told  her. 
"It  was  more  fun,  wasn't  it?" 

When  they  came  out  of  the  theater,  Maisie, 
swaggering  in  her  finery,  led  the  way  through 
the  outgoing  mob  to  the  limousine. 

"Hope  somebody  sees  us,"  she  whispered. 
"Maybe  they'll  think  that  we're  used  to  this 
dope." 

They  rode  in  state  up  Broadway,  through  the 


84  WHITHER 

glitter  of  Columbus  Circle  and  up  to  Eighty- 
third  Street. 

"We  ought  to  go  some  place  for  supper,"  said 
Tom,  but  Maisie  shook  her  head. 

"Got  to  get  up  tomorrow  and  go  to  work. 
Can't  stay  out  late." 

"Some  other  time,  then." 

Maisie  climbed  regretfully  out  of  the  limou- 
sine at  her  door.    Tom  took  her  up  the  steps. 

"Good  night,"  Maisie  said,  her  eyes  shining, 
as  she  shook  his  hand.  "Gee,  it's  been  great. 
You  know — the  girls  would  say  it  was  awful 
for  me  to  tell — but  I  was  never  in  a  limousine 
before.  Or  the  Ritz.  I  think  they're  both 
great." 

"How  about  me?"  insisted  Barrett. 

"You're  all  right,"  Maisie  told  him,  sincerely. 
He  stood  there  holding  her  hand  and  looking 
down  at  her  until  Maisie  felt  uncomfortable. 

"You're  real,  Maisie.  You're  the  real  thing," 
he  said.    "We'll  see  each  other  again  sometime." 

"Good.  So  long."  And  Maisie,  once  inside 
the  hall  door,  hitched  up  her  bodice,  pulled  her 
skirt  above  her  knees  and  scrambled  upstairs  at 
top  speed  to  break  the  news. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Zoe  learned  about  men  one  evening. 

She  learned  about  them  in  an  excellent  way 
— from  other  women.  It  came  about  one  eve- 
ning when  Fania  and  the  third-floor  girls  were 
in  May  Roberts's  disordered,  diminutive  room. 
Most  of  the  girls  were  home  evenings  now. 
The  approach  of  Christmas  and  the  consequent 
discreet  evaporation  of  male  escorts  and  callers 
had  driven  the  girls  to  seek  each  other's  com- 
pany. And  on  this  evening  Zoe  had  started 
things  going. 

"I  wonder,"  she  queried,  with  an  attempt  at 
casualness,  "if  there  is  any  sure  way  of  making 
a  man — ah — notice  you,  so  to  speak." 

She  was  thinking,  as  she  was  at  most  other 
times,  of  Bill  Cornell.  It  was  incredible  what 
a  hold  this  perfectly  normal  young  man  had  on 
her  imagination.  He  was  such  a  usual  type — 
clean,  wholesome,  hundred  per  cent  American. 
She  could  not  understand  her  growing  desire  to 
interest  him.  He  had  not  paid  her  much  per- 
sonal attention,  but  perhaps  in  New  York  girls 
used  new  methods  of  attracting  men.  If  this 
was  true,  Fania  and  Julie  would  surely  know. 

"Of  course,"  Julie's  golden  nose  sniffed  scorn- 
fully.    "Indifference.     Plain  indifference." 

85 


86  WHITHER 

Olive  Tanhill's  exquisitely  tinted  face  clouded. 

"That's  all  right  for  you,  Julie,"  she  said, 
sharply,  looking  up  from  her  manicuring  activi- 
ties, "but  the  rest  of  us  could  be  indifferent  a 
lifetime  and  all  we  would  get  for  our  pains  would 
be — indifference." 

Julie  shrugged  and  was  silent. 

"Ask  his  advice  about  something  he  doesn't 
know  anything  about,"  offered  May  Roberts. 
May,  corsetless  and  kimonoed,  squatted  on  the 
floor  and  smoked  her  own  make. 

"I  know  you'll  think  I'm  old-fashioned,"  Mar- 
got  Waite  said  apologetically,  "but  I've  used 
'Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself  for  years,  and  it 
always  works.  Of  course  you  have  to  keep  from 
twiddling  with  your  thumb  or  tapping  your  foot 
— men  always  have  so  much  to  tell  about  them- 
selves. There's  a  man  now,  for  instance,  work- 
ing on  an  invention  and  he's  always  telling  me 
about  watts  and  that  other  thing  that  goes  with 
watts — ersts  or  something.  And  I  have  to  snap 
my  eyes  and  suppress  exclamations  of  surprise 
and  awe  through  seven  courses.  Of  course  after 
I'm  through  dinner  I  quit  being  tactful,  but  his 
throat's  sore  by  that  time  anyway." 

"I  couldn't  be  bored,"  yawned  Fania.  "For 
me,  whenever  I  see  that  the  gent  in  the  party 
whom  I  prefer  doesn't  notice  me,  I  say  some- 
thing picturesque." 

"Picturesque?"  eagerly  asked  Zoe. 

"Ah — er — well,  something  that  will  make  the 


WHITHER  87 

hearer  picture  me  in  a  more  entertaining  guise 
than  he  at  the  moment  sees  me.  Ahem!  We'll 
say  he  is  fastened  to  another  girl  and  simply 
ignores  me  after  the  introduction.  I  get  a  few 
words  in,  and  then — understand,  girls,  I  lead  up 
to  it  very  smoothly — I  say  that  I  never  wear 
nighties.  Or  that  my  new  bathing  suit  turned 
out  to  be  transparent  as  well  as  abbreviated. 
It  gives  him  something  to  think  about.  He 
doesn't  pay  any  attention  to  the  other  girl." 

"Fania!" 

"It  answers  the  purpose,"  defended  Fania. 
"He  notices  me,  makes  his  speculations,  and  all  I 
have  to  do  then  is  to  sit  pretty.  I  act  as  proper 
as  anything,  but  he  hangs  on  sort  of  mystified, 
you  know.  Am  I  bad?  Or  am  I  good?  Love, 
dear  friends,  begins  with  curiosity." 

"Two  curiosities,"  jeered  Maisie. 

"But — but — what  should  /  do?"  Zoe  pinned 
the  question  to  her  own  problem. 

"I'm  afraid  Zoe  looks  too  wholesome  to  get 
away  with  technique,"  criticized  May  Roberts. 
"Men  don't  like  them  to  look  healthy  any  more, 
and  your  sport  clothes  and  bobbed  hair  and 
rubber  heels  and  stuff  like  that  are  all  wrong.  In 
New  York,  at  least.  Nowadays  men  find  a 
neurotic  appeal  in  the  wasted  form,  with  lacy 
things  dangling  over  pallid  hands  and  all  that 
stuff.  You're  thin  enough  to  get  away  with  it, 
too — sleazy  draperies  and  stuff  like  that.  The 
boyish  stuff  went  out  with  flappers." 


88  WHITHER 

Zoe  sat  back  disappointed.  She  couldn't  buy 
all  new  clothes.  And  somehow  she  could  not  see 
herself  in  anything  but  simple,  round-collared 
frocks  with  felt  hats  to  match.  Still,  maybe  that 
was  why  Bill  Cornell  didn't  take  her  up.  She 
fell  to  thinking  how  certain  blouses  could  be 
transformed  with  lace  collars,  and  her  office 
dresses  touched  up  with  ruffles. 

"Don't  you  find  men  more  interested  in  you 
after  they  find  you're  engaged?"  M argot  asked 
Fania. 

Fania  had  been  engaged  for  years  to  some  far- 
off  "Ralph."  It  had  not  altered  her  conduct  a 
great  deal,  except  that  she  spread  her  little 
infidelities  over  several  men,  under  the  impres- 
sion that  there  was  loyalty  in  numbers. 

"Funny  the  way  engaged  girls  do  take,"  com- 
mented Olive.  "Single  girls  are  considered  as 
dangerous  as  hot  bricks,  from  the  way  young 
bachelors  slink  off.  On  the  other  hand,  married 
and  engaged  men  seem  frightfully  dubby  to 
women.  We  all  cluster  round  the  ugliest  sort 
of  bachelor  instead  of  the  handsomest  married 
man." 

"In  public,  only,"  muttered  Maisie. 

"Whenever  I  find  out  that  a  rather  attractive 
man  is  engaged,  I  think,  'Well,  that  shows  there 
must  be  something  common  about  him  after  all. 
Domesticated.  Bah!'"  May  made  a  face  of 
disgust. 

Zoe  considered  the  possibility  of  faking  a 


WHITHER  89 

fiance.  She  doubted  whether  Cornell  would  be 
baited  so  easily. 

"It's  odd,  but  when  you  are  really  in  love," 
Olive  Tanhill  said,  "you  forget  all  about  tech- 
nique. You  show  your  feelings.  You  cry  and 
let  your  nose  get  red  and  your  paint  smears  your 
face.  You  make  an  absolute  idiot  of  yourself 
and  do  all  the  things  you  advise  other  girls  never 
to  do.  So  that  in  the  long  run  technique  doesn't 
help  you  with  men  at  all." 

There  was  a  silence,  Zoe  felt,  as  if  each  were 
remembering  a  time  when  technique  failed. 
Maisie  broke  it. 

"If  you  have  to  go  to  all  that  trouble  for  a 
temporary  fiance,"  she  asked,  "what  in  the  world 
do  you  do  to  get  a  husband?" 

"That,  my  dear,"  said  May,  dryly,  "is  some- 
thing only  wives  can  say." 

"I'll  tell  you  all  next  month,"  Julie  said, 
gloomily.  "I'm  going  to  marry  Alphonse  after 
Christmas.    The  twenty-ninth." 

"Are  you  sure?"  Maisie  asked. 

"Why  not?"  Julie  was  annoyed.  "I  love 
him.  He  loves  me.  And  the  Spanish  are  so — so 
fascinating.  Besides  I'm  sick  of  all  this  stuff, 
playing  up  to  men  that  you  really  don't  care 
about  anyway  and  all  that.  I  want  something 
different.  I  don't  give  a  whoop  about  the  stage. 
I  want — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  want." 

"Well,  the  only  way  to  find  out  what  you  do 
want  is  to  eliminate  the  things  you  don't  want," 


90  WHITHER 

sagely  recommended  May.  "After  you've  mar- 
ried Alphonse,  you'll  find  out  that  at  least  mar- 
riage wasn't  the  thing  you  wanted." 

Zoe  had  been  hoping  fervently  that  Julie 
would  not  marry  Alphonse.  She  didn't  want 
Julie  to  marry  anybody,  for  where  could  there 
be  found  the  god  worthy  of  her? 

"At  least  I'll  know,"  agreed  Julie  laconically, 
"and  I  don't  think  I  want  to  go  through  another 
winter  of  .  .  .  fussing  over  men.  They're  not 
worth  it.    Zoe,  don't  you  start  it." 

"But  I  only  wanted  to  find  out  how  you  inter- 
ested people  who  weren't  interested  in  you,"  Zoe 
protested.    "I — I  ought  to  know  in  my  work." 

Maisie  giggled  at  this  and  Zoe  frowned  at  her. 

"If  it's  a  question  of  using  a  man — that's  dif- 
ferent," Margot  Waite  said.  "I  mean  if  you 
want  to  get  advanced  in  your  work — wasn't  that 
what  you  meant?" 

"Y— yes." 

"Ask  Amy  Bruce,"  suggested  May  Roberts. 
"She's  got  some  beau  of  hers  to  star  her  in  a  new 
play — Amy  who  was  never  in  anything  but  a 
summer  stock  company  in  her  whole  life." 

"She  wouldn't  stop  at  much,"  Olive  said 
darkly. 

There  was  no  one,  apparently,  to  defend 
Amy's  scruples.  Zoe  puzzled  over  the  difference 
between  Amy  Bruce 's  methods  of  getting  men 
and  these  other  girls'  method.  Amy  played  for 
big  stakes — career,  honor,  reputation.     If  she 


WHITHER  91 

lost  one  for  the  other,  Amy  probably  regarded  it 
as  a  fair  loss  for  a  fair  gain.  Julie,  Fania,  Olive 
— they  considered  it  as  a  delicate  art  instead  of  a 
game. 

"When  it  comes  right  down  to  it,  though," 
mused  Zoe,  "there  isn't  much  difference  in  pick- 
ing them  up  as  Amy  does  and  trapping  them  in 
the  way  these  girls  do.  Amy  just  carries  things 
a  step  farther." 

"Poor  Amy!"  exclaimed  Fania.  "I  suppose 
temptation  just  swept  her  off  her  feet.  But  I'll 
bet  she  was  mighty  flattered  when  he  told  her  his 
base  intentions.    Insults  are  such  a  tribute." 

"Julie,"  Zoe  asked  thoughtfully,  "how  much 
will  you  take  for  your  gray  georgette?  You 
know — the  one  you  never  wear — with  the  chif- 
fon ruffles?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

Mr.  Henry  C.  Bergman,  president  of  the 
Bergman  Advertising  Company,  had  actually 
asked  to  see  Miss  Bourne  of  the  copy  writing 
department  in  his  private  office.  This,  as  every 
one  knew,  meant  a  raise  or — but  there  was  no 
reason  for  Miss  Bourne  to  be  fired,  so  it  must  be 
a  raise. 

Zoe  went  into  the  presence,  trembling.  If  she 
were  to  be  fired!  But  Mr.  Bergman,  fat  and 
sleek  in  his  snug  gray  suit,  his  ruddy  jowls  sag- 
ging over  his  snowy  collar,  looked  to  Zoe's  appre- 
hensive eye  too  calm  to  have  any  such  thunder- 
bolt up  his  sleeve.  He  wheeled  around  in  his 
chair  and  gave  her  a  patronizing  nod.  Mr. 
Bergman  did  not  believe  in  letting  his  employees 
forget  that  they  were,  after  all,  his  employees. 

"Miss  Bourne?  Sit  down,  please.  Miss 
Bourne,  just  what  motive  did  you  have  in  choos- 
ing advertising  as  your  profession?" 

"Oh,  it  was  quite  accidental,  Mr.  Bergman. 
You  see,  I  wanted  to  be  a  playwright,  but  I  had 
to  take  the  work  in  the  filing  room " 

Mr.  Bergman  ignored  this  and  frowned 
slightly  at  her  interruption. 

"Because  you  knew  it  was  the  coming  pro- 
92 


WHITHER  93 

fession,  did  you  not?  An  unploughed  field,  as  it 
were.  The  great  opportunity  for  trained  serv- 
ice. And  of  course,  you  had  heard  there  was 
big  money  in  it." 

"I  knew  that " 

"Big  money  in  it,"  repeated  Mr.  Bergman, 
riding  over  Zoe's  voice  relentlessly.  "But  it 
takes  brains  to  get  to  the  top." 

Here  he  smiled  self-consciously  and  looked 
down  at  his  plump  white  hand.  It  was  evident 
that  at  least  his  hands  had  not  been  required  in 
the  business  of  getting  to  the  top. 

"The  advertising  manager  of  the  Trust  Re- 
serve Company  gets  a  salary  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  a  year,"  he  said  impressively, 
emphasizing  his  words  by  tapping  his  pencil  on 
his  desk.  "The  man  at  the  Green-Coles  Com- 
pany makes  nearly  one  quarter  of  a  million  dol- 
lars annually.  But  that  is  nothing  compared  to 
salaries  received  by  many  other  advertising  men 
of  my  acquaintance.  I  tell  you,  Miss  Bourne, 
there's  big  money  in  it.  Big  money.  That  is, 
of  course,  if  you  care  to  stick  to  it." 

Zoe's  eyes  glowed  hopefully.  She  clasped  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  waited  to  see  what  the  big 
money  in  advertising  had  to  do  with  herself. 
Perhaps 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know  now,  Miss 
Bourne.  Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  vitally  inter- 
ested in  the  advertising  profession?" 

"Y — yes,  oh  yes,"  quaked  Zoe.    Perhaps  she 


94  WHITHER 

was  to  be  taken  into  the  firm.  Mr.  Bergman 
was  studying  her  as  if  he  had  some  such  tre- 
mendous plan  in  his  head. 

"Good.  It  is  a  practice  of  mine  never  to  offer 
encouragement  where  it  would  not  be  appreci- 
ated. What  I  want  to  say  is  that  the  Voorhees 
Cold  Cream  Company  has  spoken  so  well  of 
your  work  that  I  am  going  to  increase  your 
salary " 

He  paused  and  Zoe  saw  visions  of  herself  re- 
ceiving two  or  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  a 
year. 

" to  thirty-five  dollars  a  week." 

Mr.  Bergman  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
restored  his  pencil  to  his  waistcoat  pocket.  He 
looked  at  Zoe  benignly  to  see  if  she  were  stunned 
by  this  splendid  offer. 

"Thirty-five  dollars!"  gasped  Zoe,  coming 
down  from  her  dreams  of  thousands. 

"It  seems  large  now,"  said  Mr.  Bergman, 
indulgently,  "but  I'll  wager  you  will  soon  find 
use  for  all  of  it.  .  .  .  And  that  will,  of  course, 
entail  new  duties.  I  am  going  to  entrust  to  you 
the  full  page  ad  for  the  Voorhees  account  in  the 
Ladies'  Home  Companion.  It  should  be  ready 
by  Friday.  Mr.  Cornell  will  assist  you  in  the 
details.    Good  day,  Miss  Bourne." 

Zoe  went  over  to  her  desk,  her  head  buzzing 
with  excitement.  The  raise  wasn't  startling  but 
it  was  encouraging,  while  the  thought  of  doing 
an  important  piece  of  work  like  the  Companion 


WHITHER  95 

ad — that,  truly,  was  thrilling.  She  whispered 
the  news  to  Cornell,  but  oddly  enough,  he  only 
grumbled. 

"Won't  it  be  glorious  doing  the  whole  page?" 
Zoe  whispered  glowingly.  "They've  been  using 
such  stupid,  conventional  ads  in  the  magazines. 
I've  been  wild  to  get  a  chance  at  them.  I  have 
one  idea  that  I'm  positive " 

"Don't  be  too  excited,"  advised  Cornell  tol- 
erantly. "There'll  be  some  catch  in  it,  I'll  bet. 
The  old  man  doesn't  let  anybody  go  ahead  on 
their  own  even  if  they  have  a  good  idea.  He 
always  wants  to  putter  around,  too,  and  spoil 
everything." 

The  tall,  dried-up,  clerical  man  who  wrote  the 
automobile  ads  leaned  toward  Zoe  and  shook  his 
head  warningly. 

"Don't  get  too  fond  of  any  of  your  ideas. 
Bergman  will  break  your  heart." 

"You  mean  he'll  laugh  at  them?"  anxiously 
asked  Zoe. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Worse.  He  won't  pay  any  attention  to 
them." 

But  Zoe,  after  a  few  minutes'  eager  consulta- 
tion with  Cornell,  started  off  on  her  ad  that  was, 
she  felt,  to  make  her  famous.  She  wished  that 
she  could  have  it  signed,  so  that  every  one — 
even  people  in  Albon — could  see  how  splendid 
she  had  become.  Mr.  Kane,  too,  would  see  what 
she  really  could  do  after  he  had  made  the  oppor- 


96  WHITHER 

tunity  for  her.  Cornell  would  certainly  be 
impressed. 

It  must  be  something  that  would,  as  Mr.  Berg- 
man often  put  it,  strike  the  woman  in  the  home 
right  in  the  eye.  Something  that  would  show 
them  beauty  was  as  close  at  hand  as  their — 
well,  as  their  broomstick.  Beauty  and  the 
Broomstick,  Beauty  on  a  Broomstick,  Beauty 
versus  Broomstick.  The  words  raced  around 
Zoe's  brain  with  a  trail  of  suggestion.  She 
began  to  write,  glowing. 

It  took  another  day  before  the  ad  was  in  shape 
and  then  Zoe  felt  that  it  was  perfect.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it,  the  thing  was  the 
most  alluring  advertisement  that  any  cold  cream 
could  possibly  have.  She  had  sketched  in  the 
suggestion  of  an  illustration  which  the  artist 
would  do  and  she  was  fairly  bursting  with  pride 
over  the  thing.  She  saw  Mr.  Kane  in  the  office 
and  she  longed  to  show  him,  but  it  would  be 
more  fun  to  wait  until  the  proof  sheets  were 
ready.  So  the  copy  was  laid  demurely  on  Mr. 
Bergman's  desk  and  Zoe  could  not  write  another 
thing  all  day,  she  was  so  agitated  over  the  pros- 
pect of  Mr.  Bergman's  praise,  when  he  should 
read  the  copy  and  call  her  into  his  office. 

The  morning  passed. 

Mr.  Bergman  went  into  his  office.  Zoe  could 
scarcely  take  her  eyes  from  his  door.  But  when 
he  did  come  out  he  was  in  company  with  Mr. 
Kane  and  he  did  not  speak  to  her  at  all.    The 


WHITHER  97 

afternoon  went  with  agonizing  slowness.  Each 
time  a  visitor  went  into  the  president's  office, 
Zoe  could  have  wrung  her  hands  with  annoyance 
at  the  interruption.  But  five  o'clock  came  and 
no  summons  for  the  brilliant  young  writer  who 
had  done  the  superb  copy  for  the  Ladies'  Home 
Companion. 

Zoe  dejectedly  got  her  desk  in  readiness  to  go 
home  and  was  closing  it  when  Peggy,  the  pretty 
secretary  who  had  a  disconcerting  air  of  knowing 
everything  about  the  office,  came  in  with  a  type- 
written note  for  her. 

Zoe  read  the  note  with  a  sinking  heart.  It 
informed  her  that  she  was  to  prepare  two  ads 
with  punch  for  the  Companion,  to  be  ready  at 
ten  in  the  morning.  Did  it  mean  that  the 
Broomstick  ad  had  been  flatly  turned  down  as 
lacking  in  punch?  That  seemed  to  be  it.  Or 
perhaps  he  had  not  even  looked  at  her  work.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  that  was  something  like  the 
truth,  but  not  being  certain  of  it,  Zoe  could  only 
wail  over  the  injustice  done  her  beautiful  copy. 
It  wasn't  fair.  They  should  have  given  it  a 
chance. 

Zoe  slumped  home  on  the  subway  and  gloom- 
ily worked  in  her  room  all  that  evening  on  two 
ads  with  punch.  Maisie  and  Julie  left  her 
strictly  alone.  At  two  o'clock  she  sighed  and 
put  the  completed  drafts  into  the  pocket  of  her 
coat.  (She  hadn't  come  to  the  brief-case  stage 
yet.) 


98  WHITHER 

At  noon  the  next  day,  unable  to  bear  the  sus- 
pense any  longer,  Zoe  caught  Bergman  just  as 
he  was  dashing  into  his  office.  Her  hopes  for 
her  original  ad  had  risen  overnight  and  since 
Bergman  himself  seemed  to  be  in  such  excellent 
spirits,  she  thought  there  was  a  bare  chance 

"Mr.  Bergman,"  she  called,  slightly  flushed 
with  her  own  presumption,  "about  that  Voor- 
hees  page " 

"I  am  delighted  with  it,"  he  beamed,  his  oily 
face  shining  with  satisfaction.  "Mr.  Voorhees 
and  I  had  a  conference  last  night  and  we  evolved 
a  stupendous  thing.    Oh,  it's  big — big." 

"Was  it  the  Broomstick  one?"  Zoe  asked 
breathlessly. 

"The  what?  Yes,  Voorhees  is  pleased,  de- 
lighted.   Just  this  great  sweep  of  white  paper, 

mind  you,  and  then "    Mr.  Bergman's  eyes 

glowed  with  artistic  fervor,  and  he  lowered  his 
voice  to  a  dramatic  hiss — "at  the  very  bottom 
of  the  page  in  big  caps— VOORHEES  COLD 
CREAM  FOR  THE  PORES!  Do  you  see  the 
thing,  Miss  Bourne?  Does  it  get  you?  Oh,  it's 
big — big  I" 

And  Mr.  Bergman  whirled  into  his  office  and 
beamingly  dismissed  her.  Zoe,  disillusioned  con- 
cerning the  glorious  profession  of  advertising, 
went  back  to  her  desk  and  scowled. 

"Just  part  of  their  Montessori  system,"  Cor- 
nell said,  when  she  told  him  about  it.    "Let  the 


WHITHER  99 

children  think  they're  helping.  It  keeps  them 
happy  and  out  of  mischief." 

He  gave  her  an  impersonal  smile,  and  got  up 
to  go  to  lunch. 

The  three  older  men  in  the  room  took  it  as  a 
signal.  Tall,  lanky,  solemn-faced  Mr.  Crawford 
reached  for  his  hat  and  topcoat  just  over  Zoe's 
desk  with  a  mumbled  apology  to  her.  Plump, 
rosy  Mr.  Milton  followed  Crawford's  example. 
Mr.  Milton  wrote  copy,  but  his  chief  virtue  was 
his  ability  to  sell  the  firm.  Prospective  clients 
instinctively  trusted  Mr.  Milton.  He  joked  and 
smoked  and  got  drunk  with  them,  carried  them 
away  by  his  ineffable  enthusiasm  over  their 
business  and  gave  them  a  Big  Selling  Idea.  The 
third  man,  Allan  Myers,  was  a  weary-eyed 
young  essayist  turned  ad-writer.  He  joined  the 
other  men  and  the  four  stood  for  a  minute  talk- 
ing over  something  of  a  distinctly  hilarious 
nature.  Zoe  was  fascinated,  as  women  always 
are  when  they  see  groups  of  men  together  enjoy- 
ing themselves.  She  felt  that  she  loved  them  all, 
for  a  man  in  a  group  seems  to  take  on  the  virtues 
or  attractive  vices  of  the  others  and  seems  far 
more  interesting  and  inaccessible  than  when 
taken  alone.  How  pleasantly  powerful  a  wife 
must  feel  who  has  the  right  to  walk  in  and  inter- 
rupt their  good  time!  Women  in  groups  never 
enjoy  their  comradeship  like  that — nearly  all 
of  them  are  secretly  bored. 

It  was  then  that  Peggy  came  in  to  add  to  Zoe's 


100  WHITHER 

gloom.  Peggy  was  pretty  and  had  a  way  with 
men.  She  was  the  sort  women  hate,  because  no 
matter  how  sure  they  are  of  their  own  sweet- 
hearts or  husbands,  they  have  an  instinctive 
feeling  that  Peggy  could  get  them  if  she  so 
wished.  Zoe  hated  her  because  Cornell  always 
made  such  a  fuss  over  her. 

"She's  going  to  lunch  with  me,  boys,  so  stand 
off,"  Cornell  declared,  sliding  into  his  overcoat. 
"Go  on,  get  your  things  on,  Peggy.  It's  nearly 
twelve- thirty  and  if  we  don't  get  out  now  these 
fellows  will  all  want  to  come  along." 

Peggy's  wide  violet  eyes  opened  even  wider. 
Her  delicious  little  smile  revealed  itself. 

"Aren't  you  sure  of  yourself,  though?  Wait 
outside  by  the  elevator.  Mr.  Bergman  might 
not  like  me  to  go  out  with  you.  He'd  think  it 
wasn't  the  right  business  attitude." 

Zoe  sniffed.  But  every  one  else  roared  at  the 
remarkable  bit  of  repartee. 

"Lucky  Cornell,"  said  Milton. 

"Yes,  isn't  he?"  said  Peggy,  and  again  every 
one  shouted  with  appreciation.  Men  laugh  at 
the  stupidest  things,  Zoe  reflected. 

Cornell  went  out  and  the  three  men,  after  con- 
spiring in  whispers,  took  their  hats  and  tiptoed 
out.  Mr.  Milton  threw  a  humorous  glance  at 
Zoe. 

"Blah!"  Zoe  reflected  contemptuously,  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  office,  "men  make  me  sick. 
Glad  I've  decided  never  to  get  married.    Just 


WHITHER  101 

seeing  men  behave  like  that  over  a  vain,  stupid 
little  stenographer  is  enough.  She  does  have  a 
certain  aliveness  about  her.  But  then  I  have 
that,  too.  I  wonder  what  it  is  that  men  like.  It 
isn't  just  prettiness.  I  could  have  that  if  I  took 
some  pains  and  studied  Julie's  system.  It's 
something  else,  though." 

Zoe  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  hands,  frowning 
out  of  the  window  over  Madison  Square  Park, 
where  peripatetic  bootblacks,  jobless  men, 
swaggering  office  girls,  pinch-backed  clerks 
floated  in  noon-hour  idleness.  A  pretty  young 
lady  surrounded  by  four  mirthful  gentlemen 
presently  walked  across  the  park  on  her  way  to  a 
certain  restaurant  favored  by  advertising  men. 
But  Zoe  did  not  see  them.  She  sat  wishing  that 
she  had  that  "something  else." 


CHAPTER  X 

After  all,  Zoe  was  glad  she  was  left  in  the 
office  alone,  for  she  was  slowly  working  up  a 
profound  sympathy  for  herself  and  at  any 
moment  she  might  begin  to  weep.  All  alone  in 
New  York,  and  with  no  friends!  (She  was  able 
to  brush  the  girls  aside  with  a  gesture,  for  after 
all  they  didn't  really  care  about  her! )  And  such 
a  little  bit  of  money  to  go  on!  Thirty-five  dol- 
lars a  week  couldn't  buy  you  New  York.  And 
then  to  have  her  hopes  for  a  splendid  coup  in 
the  Companion  ad  dashed  to  the  ground!  Of 
course  that  might  have  been  bearable  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Cornell  taking  Peggy  out  like  that, 
absolutely  oblivious  to  her  own  attractions. 

Men  were  detestable.  All  the  more  so  because 
they  persisted  in  crowding  into  your  thoughts 
when  you  really  wanted  to  give  all  your  atten- 
tion to  making  a  success  in  the  world. 

"He  isn't  a  bit  clever,  anyway."  Zoe  tried 
the  old  stunt  of  analyzing  her  desire  in  order  to 
make  it  vanish.  "He's  nothing  but  a  great, 
stupid,  handsome  beast!" 

Oddly  enough  this  characterization  did  not 
make  her  scornful,  as  she  had  planned,  but 
caused  her  mouth  to  curve  tenderly. 

"No  brain  to  him  at  all.  How  he  even  got  into 
102 


WHITHER  103 

advertising  is  a  mystery  to  me,  for  he  isn't  the 
type  at  all,"  she  went  on,  a  little  less  viciously, 
but  with  the  same  intent  to  destroy  her  illusions. 
"Nothing  fine  or  brilliant  or  unusual.  Just  nor- 
mal.   And  all  physical." 

With  this  condemnation,  paradoxically  enough, 
her  eyes  became  soft  and  luminous,  dreamily 
retrospective. 

"Simply  a  handsome  beast." 

Zoe  shook  off,  virtuously,  the  compelling 
charm  of  the  words.  It  was  unthinkable  that 
an  intelligent  girl  could  not  put  her  mind  to  bet- 
ter purpose  than  this.  She  hated  Cornell.  She 
would  treat  him,  hereafter,  with  an  indifferent 
coolness.  The  thing  was  to  think  constantly  of 
her  work,  of  her  plans  for  future  fame.  She 
would  become  a  famous  writer  and  perhaps, 
when  he  sought  her  acquaintance  later  on,  she 
would  smile  a  faint,  superior  smile. 

No,  it  was  all  nonsense  permitting  herself  to 
be  concerned  whether  a  man  did  or  did  not 
notice  her.  That  wasn't  what  she  had  come  to 
New  York  for.  She  had  come  to  be  a  great 
writer,  a  playwright  or  possibly  a  novelist.  Men 
had  no  place  in  her  life,  except  as  occasional 
companions.  Certainly  her  thoughts  were  too 
valuable  to  be  wasted  on  a  handsome,  masculine 
face.  Why,  he  wasn't  even  as  clever  as  she  her- 
self was!    You  could  tell. 

She  wanted  to  strip  herself  of  all  these  weak- 
nesses.   Why  couldn't  she  be  absolutely  inde- 


104  WHITHER 

pendent,  moving  ruthlessly  on  to  her  destiny,  un- 
stirred by  sex  or  other  externals?  Zoe  clenched 
her  fists.  She  would !  She  would !  She  would  be 
cold,  she  would  be  icily  indifferent  to  all  men. 
Julie  said  it  made  you  much  more  attractive  to 
them.  There  it  was  again!  One  couldn't  be 
impervious  to  men  without  that  damnable  femi- 
nine consciousness  whispering  that  impervious- 
ness  was  a  wonderful  bait. 

"Sex — sex.  It  gets  in  the  way  of  everything," 
sighed  Zoe  wearily.  If  one  could  only  deny  it 
and  concentrate  on  a  great  goal.  She  drooped 
gloomily  over  her  desk- 
Kane,  at  that  moment  stepping  into  the  room, 
stopped  short  at  the  pathetic  picture  before  him 
— the  slim,  lonely,  young  creature  in  brown, 
bowed  with  the  weight  of  unknown  sorrows.  It 
was  the  Bourne  girl,  he  knew,  that  flashing  little 
dark  thing  he  had  recently  put  into  the  copy 
room.  The  absurd  thought  struck  him  that  her 
evident  grief  might  be  that  of  an  artist  con- 
demned to  commercialize  her  genius. 

He  took  a  few  deliberate  puffs  at  his  pipe 
before  he  spoke,  his  gray  eyes  studying  Zoe  with 
concern. 

"You're  not  taking  advertising  as  seriously  as 
all  that?"  he  asked  finally,  strolling  toward 
her. 

Zoe  sat  up  straight.  Her  face,  set  in  reso- 
lute lines,  relaxed  unexpectedly  into  a  smile  as 
she  looked  into  Kane's  face.    Why — why,  how 


WHITHER  105 

nice  he  was!  There  was  a  humorous  under- 
standing in  his  eyes  that  warmed  her  strangely. 
She  had  seen  little  of  him  since  their  first  en- 
counter and  she  was  surprised  now  to  find  her- 
self drawn  toward  him.  She  found  that  she  liked 
the  flecks  of  gray  in  his  brown  hair,  the  amused 
crinkles  about  his  eyes  and  the  strong,  yet  oddly 
sensitive  mouth. 

"No,"  she  explained,  ruefully,  "it's  not  adver- 
tising but  myself  that  I  take  seriously." 

"Worse  and  worse." 

Kane  puffed  slowly  at  his  pipe,  leaning  against 
her  desk.  He  was  glad,  at  least,  that  she  had 
not  been  crying  as  he  had  suspected.  His  lazy 
silence  gave  Zoe  the  comforting  assurance  that 
nothing  could  interest  him  more  than  for  her  to 
talk  about  her  troubles.  For  an  instant  she 
forgot  that  the  base  of  them  lay  in  Bill  Cornell's 
taking  Peggy  out  to  lunch. 

"I  want  to  be  an  individual,"  she  confessed, 
frowning.  "You  know — a — a  person,  instead  of 
just  part  of  the  crowd.    And  it's  so  hard." 

Kane  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  Zoe  hastened 
on. 

"It's  so  discouraging  to  find  that  the  same 
thing  that  bothers  the  crowd  bothers  you — like 
environment  and  family  and  sex — and — oh,  it's 
so  hard  to  explain!" 

Kane  said  nothing,  but  Zoe  found  his  silent 
smoking  more  encouraging  than  words. 

"I  thought  I  could  become  a  real  individual 


106  WHITHER 

when  I  came  to  New  York,"  she  went  on.  "Of 
course  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  be  one  in 
Albon — that's  my  home  town,  you  know.  People 
that  want  to  do  something — well,  tremendous, 
back  there  are  taken  as  jokes.  It's  true.  The 
attitude  is,  'Yes,  a  fine  artist  you'd  make,  what 
with  your  father  one  of  the  shiftless  McGillicud- 
dies  and  never  able  to  do  a  thing.'  So  you  have 
to  repress  yourself  if  you  stay  there  or  else  come 
to  New  York." 

"In  New  York,  then,"  Kane  inquired  curi- 
ously, "there  are  no  repressions?" 

Zoe  nodded  in  eager  conviction. 

"It's  the  place  people  come  to  do  the  thing 
they've  always  wanted  to  do.  Sometimes  you 
don't  get  to  do  it  right  away,  but  you  feel  as  if 
you  were  very  close  to  it.  I  want  to  write  plays 
and  become  famous.  I'm  only  writing  ads  now, 
but  I  feel  as  if  I  were  very  close  to  the  other.  I 
want  to  live  and  to  know  everything."  She 
described  a  wide  circle  in  the  air,  "Everything. 
After  that  I  will  be  able  to  write  big,  gripping 
things,  don't  you  think?" 

Kane  had  taken  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  a 
queer,  soft  smile  played  about  his  mouth.  He 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  and,  drawing  out  his  to- 
bacco, slowly  filled  his  pipe.  His  eyes  met  Zoe's 
intense,  questing  gaze. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  said.  "You  are  very 
young,  aren't  you?" 

"Nearly  twenty-three,"  said  Zoe   seriously. 


WHITHER  107 

"You  know  twenty-three  is  old  in  the  Middle 
West,  and  if  you're  going  to  be  a  person  you 
ought  to  be  pretty  well  started  by  that  time. 
Girls  are  past  the  marrying  age,  everybody 
thinks,  and  since  that's  the  only  thing  they  can 
do  besides  teach,  or  work  in  the  library,  or  go 
into  the  dry-goods  store,  why  they're  simply 
shelved.  I  didn't  want  to  be  shelved  so  I  ran 
away.  I  wanted  to  get  acquainted  with  Life, 
and  crowd  the  next  six  years  full  of  wonderful 
things.  Then,  if  I  didn't  amount  to  anything  by 
that  time,  I'd  be  content  to  be  shelved.  Thirty 
is  the  proper  age  for  shelving." 

Kane's  eyebrows  went  up  again.  Zoe  remem- 
bered Julie  and  the  girls  at  Mrs.  Home's  who, 
even  at  thirty,  seemed  to  give  no  evidence  of 
being  ready  to  be  shelved,  and  stopped  short. 

"Perhaps  thirty-five,"  she  amended. 

Kane  laughed  outright. 

"And  when  you're  thirty  you'll  push  it  on  to 
forty,"  he  told  her,  half  sadly.  "I've  just  pushed 
it  on  to  forty  myself.  Meantime  I  move  with 
the  crowd.  But  you  would  say  that  men  are 
different." 

"Men  are,"  declared  Zoe.  "They're  never 
shelved  until  they're  dead.  Thirty  is  really  the 
most  important  age  for  women,  though.  They 
have  to  be  started  toward  fame  or  a  family  by 
that  time,  and  if  they're  not,  they're  done  for. 
So  you  see  it's  very  necessary  that  I  should 
crowd  the  next  few  years." 


108  WHITHER 

"To  what  end,"  asked  Kane,  studying  her 
intent  face,  "the  family?" 

Zoe  shuddered. 

"No,  no,"  she  assured  him,  and  added  reminis- 
cently,  "I  was  on  the  verge  of  it  twice  in  the  last 
four  years  back  in  Albon.  It  makes  me  shiver 
to  think  how  close  I  came  to  it.  It  was  after  I 
had  to  give  up  college — I  only  went  a  year — and 
my  brothers  and  sisters  and  everybody  waited 
for  me  to  do  something.  But  there  wasn't  any- 
thing wonderful  for  me  to  do  in  Albon  and  I 
saw  I'd  never  get  anywhere  as  society  editor  of 
the  Albon  paper,  so  in  sheer  desperation  I  got 
engaged.  He  was  the  only  person  I  could  get 
engaged  to,  as  the  other  six  eligible  men  were  all 
picked  out  by  six  of  the  forty  or  so  eligible  girls." 

"What  happened?"  Kane  asked,  interestedly. 

"I  got  panicky,"  Zoe  confided.  "I  was  horrid 
to  him  and  he  went  and  made  one  of  the  other 
forty  happy  right  away.  Then  last  year  I  weak- 
ened again.  You  do  get  desperate,  you  know, 
with  every  one  watching  you  and  thinking 
you're  due  for  spinsterhood,  and  so  I  got  en- 
gaged to  the  young  man  who'd  come  to  work  in 
the  shoe  store.  But  I  got  faint-hearted  as  the 
wedding  day  approached.  The  family  hated  me 
when  I  backed  out  again.  It  sort  of  reflects  on 
the  family,  you  know,  to  have  old  maids  in  it. 
One  of  the  forty — only  it  was  sixty  or  seventy 
by  this  time — got  him,  too.  Wasn't  I  lucky  to 
have  a  vacillating  disposition?" 


WHITHER  109 

"I  think  you  were,"  Kane  agreed.  "You 
should  congratulate  yourself  on  making  the  first 
steps  toward  individuality." 

"I  have  done  something  then,  haven't  I?" 
Zoe  asked  him,  anxiously.  "Different  from  the 
crowd,  I  mean.  I  did  overcome  one  of  the  estab- 
lished things,  didn't  I?    Marriage,  I  mean." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  Kane  answered.  "It 
should  give  you  faith  in  your  power  to  overcome 
the  rest." 

Zoe  pondered  this.  There  it  was.  Sex  had 
gotten  in  her  path  before  and  she  had  swept  it 
ruthlessly  aside  and  marched  on.  She  could  do 
it  again.  She  would  refuse  to  think  of  love  or 
Cornell,  except  as  an  abstract  word  and  a  co- 
worker in  her  office  respectively. 

As  for  Kane,  smiling  down  at  her,  he  was  glad 
he  had  spoken  to  her.  He  had  wanted  to  talk 
to  her,  to  hear  her  story  ever  since  she  came  in 
that  day.  She  was  so  eager  and  buoyant,  as  if 
she  had  made  herself  a  chalice  for  all  of  life 
to  pour  through.  He  had  been  like  that  ten — or 
was  it  fifteen? — years  ago.  His  eye  took  in  the 
vividness  of  her  thin,  absorbed  face.  She  had 
thanked  him  once  for  plucking  her  from  the 
ghastly  monotony  of  routine  office  work.  He 
would  have  liked  to  do  more  for  her.  One  felt 
that  way  about  these  scarlet-seeking  young  ones. 

Zoe's  eyes  strayed  toward  the  window.  She 
thought  it  was  kind  of  Kane  to  let  her  run  on 
like  this,  when  he  had  so  many  important  things 


110  WHITHER 

to  do.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  perfectly  nat- 
ural. He  did  not  seem  old  today,  even  if  he  was 
nearly  thirty-five,  as  Maisie  had  said.  She  was 
relieved,  too,  to  find  some  one  with  whom  she 
could  talk  about  herself.  The  girls  at  Mrs. 
Home's  were  always  so  full  of  their  own  stories. 
But  one  doesn't  like  to  listen  all  the  time. 

"Some  day  we  must  have  lunch  together,"  said 
Kane,  haltingly.    "Do  you  think " 

He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  suggested  that 
they  go  out  that  very  minute,  but  Zoe,  after  her 
first  exclamation  of  pleasure,  was  reminded  that 
Maisie  was  probably  waiting  for  her  in  their 
usual  lunching  place  at  that  moment.  She  got 
up  and  put  on  her  hat  reluctantly.  She  was 
afraid  Kane  thought  she  had  stayed  in  to  angle 
for  his  invitation  and  flushed  brilliantly  at  the 
thought.  After  all  he  was  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant persons  of  the  office,  and  here — what 
a  frightful  thing  for  her  to  do! — she  had  for 
some  reason  confided  in  him  as  if  she  had  known 
him  all  her  life.  Zoe  was  aghast  at  her  famili- 
arity, as  her  mind  went  back  over  their  conver- 
sation. How  could  she  have  dared  say  all  those 
things,  when  they  had  barely  exchanged  a  dozen 
words  before?  Telling  him  about  Frank  and 
Cliff  that  way — things  she  had  not  talked  about 
even  to  Julie  or  Maisie.  She  bit  her  lip  and 
burned  with  embarrassment. 

Kane  still  stood  by  her  desk,  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  watching  her  casually.    He  was  afraid 


WHITHER  111 

his  offer  had  vaguely  offended  her.  She  might 
have  some  queer  feeling  about  his  being  married 
or  some  such  thing  as  that.  Well,  he  wouldn't 
speak  of  it  again,  if  it  embarrassed  her.  She 
stimulated  him,  though,  by  her  zest  for  things. 
Such  a  flaming  little  creature,  her  arms  out  eager 
to  be  hurt  by  life. 

Kane  turned  and  went  back  to  his  own  office. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Zoe  ran  into  Miss  Tait  one  morning  on  Forty- 
Second  Street.  She  had  to  look  twice  before  she 
recognized  her,  for  the  little  old  lady  fairly 
shone  with  new  clothes — a  purple-plumed  hat, 
a  mink-collared  coat,  white  gloves  and  a  round 
dab  of  rouge  in  her  thin,  unaccustomed  cheeks 
to  give  the  final  touch  to  her  costume.  She 
was  almost  scampering  along  the  street  in  her 
suppressed  excitement.  She  looked  bursting 
with  secrets. 

Zoe  stared  at  her  curiously  before  she  hailed 
her. 

"You  look  very  gay,  Miss  Tait.  Is  it  a 
party?" 

Miss  Tait  turned  around  hastily. 

"Why,  hello,  my  dear.  How  are  you?  No, 
it's  not  a  party.  It's — it's  an  interview.  A 
really  very  important  one  for  me." 

Her  usually  drab,  colorless  voice  had  taken  on 
quite  a  dominating  quality  and  Zoe  wondered 
what  the  cause  of  it  was. 

"It's  with  Mary  Pickford.  .  .  .  Please  don't 
cry  out  like  that,  my  dear.  It  upsets  me  so, 
when  I'm  in  this  mood.  So  much  depends,  you 
know  .  .  .  really,  my  whole  future." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  want  to  write  scenarios,"  Zoe 
112 


WHITHER  113 

remembered  Miss  Tait's  bug  and  smiled  sym- 
pathetically. "Does  it  really  bring  you  in  touch 
with  the  big  film  people?    How  nice!" 

Miss  Tait  coughed. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  that  I've  actually  ever  met 
any  of  them — yet.  That's  what  has  kept  me 
from  getting  ahead.  If  you  don't  see  the  stars 
themselves,  you  can't  sell  your  scenarios  at  all. 
It's  very  distressing,  my  dear.  Sometimes  one 
does  get  discouraged.  Sometimes  I  simply  pack 
my  trunks  and  go  back  to  the  Nashville  Library. 
I  have  a  very  good  position  there,  but  anyone 
can  be  a  librarian." 

"But  you  always  come  back  to  New  York," 
Zoe  smiled. 

Miss  Tait  sighed. 

"Yes,  I  always  come  back.  It's  so  foolish  of 
me,  you  see,  to  waste  my  time  with  books  when  I 
could  be  making  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  a 
year  writing  photoplays.  Really  criminal  to 
neglect  such  a  chance.  But  now  everything  is 
splendid.  I  expect  to  be  connected  with  Miss 
Pickford's  company  by  the  first  of  the  year.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  Zoe,  that  the  thing  is 
as  good  as  settled.  A  friend  of  my  brother's  in 
Brooklyn  knows  Miss  Pickford's  scenario  direc- 
tor and  has  given  me  a  letter  to  her  arranging 
for  the  interview.  He  told  me  to  go  over  to  the 
hotel  this  morning — she's  in  town,  you  know — 
and  I  couldn't  miss  her." 

"It  does  sound  promising,"  said  Zoe. 


114  WHITHER 

Miss  Tait's  small,  worried  face  registered 
annoyance. 

"Promising?  It's  as  good  as  settled.  You  see 
she's  at  the  hotel  and  I  have  the  letter  of  intro- 
duction that  can't  fail.  .  .  .  Last  year  my  cousin 
in  California  met  the  Gish  girls  and  spoke  of 
me,  so  that  when  they  came  on  I  called  to  see 
them.  But  they  were  busy  all  the  time,  packing 
to  go  back  to  Hollywood,  I  think  .  .  .  and  so 
I  missed  that  opportunity  or  probably  I  should 
be  with  their  company  at  this  minute.  Then 
the  year  before  I  had  a  letter  to  Mr.  Chaplin 
from  the  librarian  in  Memphis  who  had  met 
him  once.  Not  that  I  do  his  sort  of  thing, 
but  one  could  adapt  one's  style.  .  .  .  However, 
he  was  taken  ill  with  tonsillitis  here  and  they 
wouldn't  admit  visitors." 

"Do  you  think  you  ought  to  count  too  much 
on  this  interview  with  Mary  Pickford?"  asked 
Zoe,  tentatively. 

Miss  Tait's  brows  drew  together  fretfully. 

"I  told  you  it  was  settled,  didn't  I?  My  dear, 
when  you've  been  in  pictures  as  long  as  I  have, 
you'll  know  when  a  thing's  settled!  Does  my 
hat  look  all  right?" 

"Beautiful,"  Zoe  said,  and  then  stood  for  a 
moment,  speculatively  watching  the  little  spin- 
ster bustle  across  the  street  and  up  Fifth  Avenue. 
Funny  that  a  woman  that  old — she  must  be  at 
least  fifty  or  sixty — would  keep  on  with  such 
absurd  hopes.     Of  course  she  wouldn't  see  the 


WHITHER  115 

star,  and  if  she  did  it  wouldn't  get  her  anywhere. 
Sixty,  too!  Wasn't  there  an  age  of  reason,  any 
more? 

Rowena  Shay  had  arrived  at  Mrs.  Home's  for 
her  customary  month's  New  York  preparation 
for  lyceum  work.  Rowena,  it  was  carefully 
explained  to  Zoe,  was  one  of  the  few  successful 
theatrical  members  of  Mrs.  Home's  "family." 
Not  that  she'd  ever  been  on  Broadway,  but  she 
had  actually  earned  a  living  for  nearly  three 
years  through  the  drama.  Rowena  told  Zoe  that 
she  had  always — ever  since  infancy — been  inter- 
ested in  the  drama,  and  had  taken  prizes  in 
elocution  as  far  back  as  she  could  remember. 
This  predilection,  coupled  with  what  seemed  to 
every  one  else  unbearable  perseverance,  had 
resulted  in  her  getting  to  the  top  in  a  compara- 
tively short  time.  And  so  we  see  her  now  billed 
in  over  one  thousand  towns  as  "Rowena  Shay, 
Reader,"  for  the  Blue  Valley  Lyceum  Company. 

"Even  after  I  became  successful,"  she  con- 
fided to  Zoe  in  Enna's  room — Enna  had  gone  to 
Washington  for  a  fortnight  and  had  sublet  her 
room,  "I  never  stopped  with  my  exercises.  If 
one  wants  to  succeed  in  drama  one  has  to  keep 
up.  You  and  Maisie  and  Julie  will  have  to 
excuse  me  if  you  hear  me  going  through  my 
vowel  sounds  every  morning,  because  vowel 
sounds  are  simply  everything  to  an  artist.  You 
won't  mind?" 

Zoe    and    Maisie,    seated    on    the    foot    of 


116  WHITHER 

Rowena's  bed,  assured  her  of  their  sympathy 
with  such  devotion  to  art.  Rowena  was  thumb- 
ing over  the  script  of  her  new  "vehicle"  and 
preparing  to  rehearse.  She  felt  none  of  the 
novice's  hesitation  over  practicing  in  public. 
The  drama  was  too  serious  a  matter  to  con- 
sider extraneous  things.  Besides,  in  Rowena's 
home  town  in  Arkansas,  her  practicing  was  so 
impressive  an  occasion  to  her  small  brothers  and 
sisters  that  she  had  become  a  bit  vain  over  it. 
It  was  so — well,  so  professional.  She  handed 
the  script  to  Zoe  after  glancing  hurriedly 
through  it. 

"You  catch  me  up  on  any  slips.  You  see 
I  read  this  entire  play  from  memory.  You 
watch  my  tones  and  if  I  sound  nasal  you  must 
stop  me  at  once  and  I  will  correct  myself.  Or 
if  I  forget  my  r's" 

"Forget  your  r's?"  repeated  Zoe,  stupidly. 

"I  mean  if  I — forget  to — ah — forget  them. 
You  have  to,  you  know.  It  is  so — well,  in 
dramatic  work  the  r  sound  is  so  bourgeois,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean.  First,  though,  I  must 
work  out  my  business." 

She  looked  at  Zoe  to  see  how  the  phrase 
affected  her,  but  Zoe  was  going  through  the 
manuscript  and  failed  to  respond.  So  she 
coughed  and  laughed  self-consciously. 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't  know  what  business 
meant — that's  simply  the  facial  expression  and 
your  actions  as  you  speak." 


WHITHER  117 

"Oh,  yes,"  murmured  Zoe.  Maisie  had  begun 
to  squirm  and,  seeing  the  thickness  of  the  manu- 
script in  Zoe's  hand,  decided  on  retreat. 

"Sorry,  Ro,"  she  said,  getting  up  and  sidling 
across  the  hall,  "I  have  to  wash  some  things. 
But  I'll  be  right  here,  you  know,  and  I'll  hear 
every  word.     I'll  help  Zoe  trip  you  up." 

"You  mean,  see  that  I  don't  get  tripped  up," 
corrected  Rowena.  She  frowned  slightly  as 
Maisie  went  out,  then,  with  quick,  decisive 
movements,  twisted  a  chair  a  quarter  of  an  inch, 
stepped  back  and  viewed  the  effect  keenly,  then 
twisted  it  back  an  eighth  of  an  inch  with  great 
care. 

"This,"  she  explained,  "is  the  fireplace." 

Rowena  studied  the  chair  through  half-closed 
lids.  Then  she  turned  brightly  to  Zoe.  She 
gave  her  head  a  quick,  thorough  shake,  as  if 
to  throw  off  her  personality  and,  by  tremendous 
artistry,  dive  into  the  atmosphere  of  another 
world.  Raising  her  right  hand  and  falling  back 
a  step,  she  began  her  series  "to  get  oiled  up," 
she  laughingly  explained. 

"Anger,"  quickly  letting  her  head  and  arm 
droop.  "Resentment,"  raising  both  hands 
slightly,  third  finger  leading  downward.  "Hope" 
and  on,  by  miraculous  changes  of  expression, 
through  "Irritation,"  "Dignity,"  "Flirtation," 
"Passion,"  and  "Appeal." 

"Is  that  the  prologue?"  asked  Zoe,  staring. 

"Mercy,  no.    Just  the  exercises  I  was  speak- 


118  WHITHER 

ing  of.  Now  let's  begin.  Remember  about  the 
nasal  tones  and  my  r's."  Rowena  stepped  back 
two  paces,  lifted  her  head,  placed  her  feet 
squarely  apart,  her  hands,  in  the  new  manner, 
calmly  at  her  side,  and  in  a  changed  voice,  a 
clear,  ringing,  lyceum  voice,  began  her  reading. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  the  library  of  Colonel 
Winter's  home  in  Richmond,  Virginia.  To  the 
right  (gesture)  we  have  a  long  French  window, 
leading  out  to  the  rose  garden.  To  the  left 
(gesture)  is  a  door  leading  into  the  dining  room. 
Beside  this  door  (half-turn  body)  is  a  long,  com- 
fortably upholstered  bench,  flanked  by  a  library 
table  on  one  side  and  a  footstool  on  the  other. 
Directly  in  the  rear  is  a  door  opening  on  a 
balcony.  Windows  are  on  either  side  of  this 
door,  through  which  may  be  seen  an  old- 
fashioned  apple  orchard.  (Smile  here)  Beside 
the  door  on  the  right  (gesture)  is  a  blazing 
fire  (rub  hands  here,  eyes  sparkling),  beside 
which  is  a  sofa.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  sound 
of  a  bell  is  heard  and  Major  Willard  is  seen 
outside  the  rear  door.  Through  the  dining  room 
comes  little  Mary  Winter  (smile  indulgently  here 
to  signify  youth),  who  hastens  to  the  door  and 
opens  it. 

"(In  a  deep  voice)  Ah — ah — is  the  Kuhnel  in? 

"(Falsetto,  snapping  eyes  and  bowing  with 
childish  self-consciousness)  No,  he  isn't,  but  I 
know  you  must  be  Majah  Willad  because  Fathah 
has  always  spoken  of  you. 


WHITHER  119 

"(Deep,  rolling  laugh)  So  youah  fathah  has 
always  spoken  of  me,  has  he?  Well,  well,  that's 
only  natural  since  we've  been  podners  these 
twenty  yahs.  And  you — why,  you  must  be  little 
Mary  Winter — Wintah. 

"(Falsetto  laugh,  with  twisting  of  hands  be- 
hind back,  and  shy  response) — Yes,  I'm  little 
Mary,  or  Poll — that's  what  Fathah  calls  me." 

It  seemed  to  Zoe  that  she  had  never  heard 
such  an  endless  performance,  and  Rowena  her- 
self began  to  tire  before  the  end  with  the  de- 
mands made  upon  her  talented  vocal  chords, 
changing  from  little  Mary's  nasal  soprano  to  the 
Major's  deep,  jovial  tones,  and  then  to  Mrs. 
Winter's  low,  rippling,  Southern-hostess  drawl 
with  its  mellow  laughter,  and  again  to  the 
Colonel's  character  voice.  There  was,  too,  the 
Major's  son's  voice,  alert,  cheery,  full  of  personal 
magnetism.  Rowena  was  constantly  mixing  them 
up,  having  Mrs.  Winter  speak  in  the  juvenile 
soprano,  and  Major  Willard  speak  in  the  per- 
fect hostess  voice.  Zoe  was  getting  much  con- 
fused when  Rowena  saved  the  situation  by 
stopping  short. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  enunciated,  looking  keenly 
at  Zoe,  "that  my  last  pronunciation  of  Winter 
sounded  a  little  nasal.    I  shall  test  it." 

"How?"  Zoe  was  open-mouthed. 

Rowena  smiled  enigmatically  and  picked  up 
a  box  of  matches  from  the  table  in  the  clean- 
cut  manner  that  magicians  use  in  handling  their 


120  WHITHER 

equipment.  (You  can  see,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, that  I  conceal  nothing  from  you.)  Then 
she  struck  a  match  and,  holding  it  in  front  of 
her  nose,  majestically  pronounced  the  word, 
"Wintah — Win-tah,"  four  times.  Zoe,  staring, 
expected  to  see  a  rabbit  emerge  from  the  flames. 
The  match  went  out  and  Rowena  scowled. 

"What  was  that  for?"  demanded  Zoe. 

"Just  the  test  for  nasality,"  said  Rowena,  off- 
handedly. "If  your  tone  is  nasal — and  you've 
no  idea  what  a  handicap  being  born  in  Arkansas 
is — it  will  blow  the  match  out,  or  maybe  if  it 
isn't  nasal  it  will  blow  it  out."  She  scratched 
her  forehead  perplexedly,  "I  seem  to  have  for- 
gotten. But  I  believe  it  proves  that  my  tone 
was  not  nasal  in  saying  the  word  'Wintah.'  I 
never  hesitate  to  test  myself,  though.  If  I  find 
myself  lapsing  into  an  error  of  diction  or  elo- 
cution I  stop  short — just  as  I  did  this  time,  and 
go  over  with  the  greatest  care  the  phrase  at 
issue." 

"Quite  right,"  murmured  Zoe,  humbly.  She 
looked  anxiously  toward  Maisie's  open  door.  If 
only  Maisie  would  come  in  now,  saying  there 
was  a  telegram  for  her  or  something.  It  was 
really  too  much  to  sit  through  Rowena's  next 
two  acts.  Good,  fat  acts  they  were,  too,  as  Zoe 
could  see.  Rowena  had  barely  started  the  second 
act — (The  drawing  room  of  Major  Willard's 
apartment  in  uptown  New  York.  Japanese 
valet.     Supper  for  two.    "You  may  go,  Toto." 


WHITHER  121 

"Very  good,  sir.  And  shall  I  return,  sir,  to  serve 
the  dinner?"  etc.) — when  Maisie  finally  took 
pity  on  her  trapped  comrade  and  threw  open 
the  door  dramatically,  a  wet  stocking  dripping 
from  her  hand. 

"Rowena!"  she  shrieked,  "drop  that  r!" 

Rowena  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Oh,  I  forgot.  I  knew  I  would! "  she  moaned. 
"I  said  din-ner  instead  of  dinnah!  Oh,  if  I  had 
only  been  born  in  Boston  instead  of  Arkansas! 
Zoe,  why  didn't  you  stop  me?" 

"From  being  born  in  Arkansas?  My  dear,  I 
was  so  far  away,  what  could  I  do?"  gurgled  Zoe, 
edging  toward  the  door.  Rowena  looked  hurt. 
Zoe  composed  herself. 

"I  think  I  confuse  you,  Rowena,"  she  managed 
to  say,  quietly.  "You  probably  wouldn't  have 
made  the  mistake  if  I  hadn't  been  here.  I'll  slip 
out  and  do  some  work  in  my  room  and  let  you 
rehearse  in  peace." 

"But "  wailed  Rowena,  picking  up  her 

fallen  script. 

The  door,  however,  was  closed  softly  but 
firmly.  On  the  other  side  of  it,  two  members  of 
the  audience  rocked  silently  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XII 

As  Christmas  approached,  Mrs.  Home's  estab- 
lishment took  on  an  air  of  hopeless  gloom. 
Dinner  became  a  silent,  melancholy  affair  which 
Mrs.  Home,  with  indomitable  cheerfulness,  tried 
in  vain  to  brighten.  Maisie  invited  every  one  to 
her  exhibition  of  Christmas  gifts — a  solitary 
cotton  handkerchief,  prettily  boxed  and  placed 
in  the  center  of  her  dressing  table — for  presents 
were  as  scarce  as  they  are  in  any  other  New 
York  boarding  house  whose  inmates  have  long 
since  cut  their  home  connections.  Julie,  with  a 
glittering  hoop  of  diamonds  from  Alphonse,  was 
even  gloomier  than  the  others. 

"Nobody  thinks  they're  real,  anyway,"  she 
muttered  in  Zoe's  ear.  "Might  as  well  be  glass 
so  far  as  the  world  is  concerned." 

"But  the  meaning  of  the  thing,  Julie!"  Zoe 
protested,  rather  limply.  She  had  some  time  ago 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Julie  was  getting 
married  simply  because  it  looked  like  a  dull 
season  and,  besides,  she'd  tried  everything  else. 

"I  wonder  what  an  engagement  ring  does 
mean,"  reflected  Julie,  pushing  aside  Mrs. 
Home's  "Reminiscent  Salad,"  as  Maisie  called 
it,  with  a  faint  frown  of  distaste,  "I  suppose  it 
means  something  different  to  each  girl." 

"To  most  of  them  nowadays  it's  just  an  orna- 
122 


WHITHER  123 

ment,"  Miss  Tait  put  in,  with  more  than  usual 
spirit.  It  was  plain  that  Miss  Tait  had  never 
had  one.  She  had  been  irritable  ever  since  her 
interview  with  Mary  Pickford  had  failed  to 
materialize. 

"Probably,"  said  Julie,  absently.  Julie  was 
cross,  too,  as  her  wedding  day,  which  was  set 
for  the  twenty-ninth,  approached.  She  had 
faint  purple  shadows  beneath  her  eyes  and  her 
mouth  had  taken  on  a  nervous,  set  line.  Some- 
times she  didn't  even  take  the  trouble  to  rouge, 
and  on  these  occasions  her  creamy  face,  under 
its  shock  of  burnt-gold  hair,  took  on  a  most  be- 
coming ethereal  quality.  Amy  Bruce,  in  fact, 
had  dropped  rouge  on  the  strength  of  Julie's 
appearance  without  it.  Her  mascaraed  eyes  and 
hennaed  hair  without  the  rouge,  however,  gave 
her  a  fearful,  decadent  look  which  she  eventually 
recognized  and  hastily  remedied. 

"Fania  invited  me  to  go  to  her  aunt's  in  Brook- 
lyn over  Christmas,"  Maisie  announced  impor- 
tantly, from  the  other  side  of  the  table.  "I  feel 
sort  of  mean  leaving  Zoe  all  alone,  but  gee!" 

"Don't  bother  about  Zoe,"  said  Julie,  quickly. 
"Zoe  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  party  all  by  our- 
selves. Let  me  see,  tomorrow  is  Christmas  Eve. 
Well,  tomorrow  night  we'll  stage  the  party,  Zoe." 

"First  I'd  heard  of  it,"  Zoe  said,  hopefully. 
She  had  not  been  looking  forward  much  to 
Christmas  alone  at  Mrs.  Home's.  "But,  Julie — 
how  about  the  blushing  bridegroom?" 


124  WHITHER 

Julie  looked  mutinous  as  she  answered. 

"I  told  him  I  was  going  to  Philadelphia  to 
visit  my  grandfather.  Of  course  I  don't  have 
any  grandfather  in  Philadelphia,  but  I  simply 
had  to  have  one  good  time  before  I  got  married. 
Not  that  I  don't  love  Alphonse " 

"If  you  loved  him,  I  guess  you  wouldn't  mind 
spending  Christmas  with  him,"  muttered  Miss 
Tait. 

Julie  ignored  her. 

"But  I  want  to  feel  free — just  free — for  one 

more  time  before  I — before  I "  Julie's  lip 

trembled.  One  would  have  thought  that  getting 
married  was  the  great  renunciation  act,  that 
Julie  was  bidding  farewell  to  joy,  as  she  entered 
into  that  state. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Zoe,  in  great  relief. 
"What  shall  we  do?    Will  it  cost  a  lot?" 

Julie  looked  vague. 

"Oh,  we'll  do  something,  never  fear." 

Her  plans  were  not  even  more  certain  as  they 
dressed  late  the  next  afternoon  to  go  out  to 
dinner.  For  the  occasion,  Julie  had  pillaged 
Enna's  closet,  that  person  having  gone  off  to  an 
obscure  uncle's  in  Albany.  So  there  was  a  smart 
hat  with  a  brim  of  monkey  fur  for  Zoe  and  a 
sleek  black  coat  for  Julie.  Julie,  too,  decided 
that  Zoe  could  wear  her  own  exquisitely  tailored 
green  coat  with  its  monkey  fur  collar  splashing 
under  her  chin  seductively. 

"Every  one  else  will  have  men,  of  course," 


WHITHER  125 

Julie  said,  as  they  started  out  shortly  after  seven, 
looking,  as  they  both  thought  after  a  glance  in 
the  elevator  mirror,  immaculately  and  well- 
groomed.  They  glanced  at  the  mail  desk  in  the 
reception  hall  and  at  the  six  or  seven  post  cards 
there;  they  looked  up  and  met  each  other's  eyes 
with  the  same  thought.  Christmas  was  queer, 
indeed,  when  the  mail  for  twenty  girls  was  as 
skimpy  as  that. 

"This  just  come,  Miss  Bo'n,  fo'  you,"  Zoe 
heard  the  elevator  boy  behind  her  saying.  She 
turned  around  and  took  a  square  box  from 
him. 

"Thorley's!"  Julie  peeked  over  her  shoulder 
and  read  the  name  written  in  the  corner.  "Zoe, 
what  have  you  been  keeping  from  me?  Who  is 
sending  you  flowers?" 

Zoe  was  looking  down  at  the  flawless  corsage 
of  violets  in  the  box,  her  mouth  agape. 

"Julie,  who who,  do  you  suppose?"    She 

looked  at  Julie  helplessly  and  then  a  swift 
thought  came.  "Christopher  Kane — or — but  it 
couldn't  be  Bill  Cornell." 

"Why  not?" 

Zoe  slowly  fastened  the  corsage  at  her  waist. 
She  was  tremulous  with  the  thrill  of  her  first 
flowers.  How  beautiful  New  York  was!  In 
Albon  no  one  ever  would  have  sent  her  flowers. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  can't  imagine  him 
thinking  of  it,  that's  all.  It  couldn't  be  anybody 
else  but  Mr.  Kane,  and  yet  it  seems  odd  that  he 


126  WHITHER 

should  go  to  all  that  trouble  for  me.  He 
probably  thought  I'd  be  lonesome." 

Julie  looked  at  her. 

"But  isn't  he  married?" 

"Yes,"  said  Zoe,  "but  this  is  just  business,  I 
think.  A  little  welfare  work,  I  suppose,  for  a 
girl  alone  in  New  York.  Anyway,  he  isn't 
exactly  a  married  man  because  they  don't  live 
together." 

She  was  thinking  how  nice  it  was  of  Mr.  Kane 
to  remember  her  and  how  beautiful  it  made  one 
feel  to  wear  flowers. 

Julie  said  nothing  more  and  they  walked 
toward  Broadway  where  electric  signs  glowed 
through  a  mist  of  soft,  wet  snow.  Limousines 
and  taxis  padded  along  on  their  chained  tires 
over  the  damp  pavements.  In  front  of  the  big 
apartment  houses  and  hotels,  awnings  were 
thrown  out,  under  which  ladies  in  pastel,  furred 
evening  cloaks  glittered  from  the  door  to  their 
waiting  cars,  on  the  arms  of  men  in  opera  hats 
whose  white  shirts  gleamed  through  half-open 
cloaks.  Julie  and  Zoe,  hurrying  along,  heard 
imperious  commands  to  taxi-drivers — "Palais 
Royale!"  "Moulin  Rouge!"  "Montmartre!" 
"Voisins!" 

"You  can  tell  the  kind  they  are  by  the  places 
they're  going  to,"  Julie  whispered  in  Zoe's  ear, 
"whether  they're  the  real  thing  or  just  trying  to 
be  it." 

They  were  passing  a  cigar  store  when  a  man 


WHITHER  127 

in  evening  clothes,  his  hat  tilted  in  a  jovial 
fashion  over  one  eyebrow,  emerged  and  waved 
frantically  to  a  taxi  just  sliding  over  toward 
Bretton  Hall,  empty  of  its  cargo. 

"Bertolotti's!"  he  cried,  and  jumped  on  the 
running  board  before  the  taxi  stopped. 

"There  goes  a  real  person,"  Julie  declared. 
"Anybody  that  goes  down  to  Bertolotti's  on 
Christmas  Eve.  .  .  .  Let's  go  down  there." 

"Subway?"  inquired  Zoe,  as  they  approached 
the  Eighty-sixth  Street  station. 

Julie  hesitated. 

"I've  got  four  dollars.  Have  you  got  any? 
Eight?  Good.  Let's  take  a  taxi  down  and 
see  what  the  town  looks  like  tonight.  Only  they 
always  soak  you  so  on  Christmas  Eve." 

A  yellow  taxi  sidled  along  and  a  fat,  puffy 
gentleman  with  a  fat,  puffy  lady  hurried  out  to 
catch  it,  but  Julie  laid  her  hand  restrainingly 
on  the  man's  arm. 

"My  taxi,"  she  said  coldly  and,  beckoning 
Zoe,  stepped  into  the  car,  leaving  the  fat  couple 
staring  indignantly  after  them.  The  chauffeur 
grinned. 

"Bertolotti's,"  commanded  Julie. 

"Sure  we  oughtn't  to  be  in  evening  dress  for 
Bertolotti's?"  asked  Zoe,  settling  Enna's  hat  on 
her  black  hair. 

"Wait  till  you  see  the  sawdust  on  the  floor," 
laughed  Julie.  Her  pre-marital  gloom  had  van- 
ished and  she  was  the  gay,  adventuresome  Julie 


128  WHITHER 

that  Zoe  had  first  known.  Zoe,  too,  had  for- 
gotten that  the  advertising  job  was  not  going 
so  smoothly  these  days,  that  a  new  girl  had  come 
into  the  copy  room  and  no  one  paid  any  attention 
to  her  any  more,  except  possibly  Mr.  Kane,  and 
that  Bill  Cornell  seemed  to  have  fallen  out  of  an 
affair  with  Peggy  into  an  affair  with  the  viva- 
cious new  girl.  She  was  simply  living  in  this 
Christmas  Eve,  and  everything  seemed  intoxi- 
catingly  beautiful  because  there  were  her  first 
flowers  at  her  waist.  She  was  happy  to  be  with 
Julie,  and  only  unhappy  when  she  remembered 
that  Julie  would  be  gone  in  another  four  or  five 
days,  gone  with  Alphonse.  Zoe  did  not  like 
Alphonse,  because  he  seemed  to  think  he  owned 
Julie,  when  Julie  really  belonged  to  her — Zoe 
Bourne. 

Their  taxi  slid  along  the  street  past  other 
taxis  and  limousines  through  whose  windows  one 
caught  glimpses  of  painted  women  laughing  with 
shadowy  men.  In  the  theatrical  district  auto- 
mobiles, street  cars,  and  sight-seeing  busses  were 
packed  so  tightly  that  they  seemed  to  take  an 
hour  to  every  block.  At  Forty-fourth  Street 
the  traffic-policeman  stopped  them,  and  Zoe  and 
Julie,  leaning  out,  saw  a  small  crowd  collected 
around  a  policeman  and  an  aged  beggar. 

"Isn't  he  cruel  to  make  him  move  on  when 
it's  Christmas?"  flared  up  Zoe. 

A  man  standing  at  the  curb,  hardly  a  foot 
away,  turned  at  Zoe's  words  and  half  smiled. 


WHITHER  129 

"He  ain't  cruel,  miss,"  he  said.  "This  guy's 
made  nearly  half  a  million  begging  and  the 
cop's  got  the  dope  on  him  and  is  sending  him  up 
to  let  the  other  guys  have  a  chance  in  the 
trade." 

Julie  and  Zoe  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  The 
downtown  traffic  was  released  again,  and  they 
moved  on  toward  Greenwich  Village,  leaving  the 
millionaire  beggar  to  fight  his  battle  with  the 
law. 

At  Herald  Square  they  had  easier  sailing 
and  rode  down  under  the  elevated  track  to  West 
Third  Street,  to  Bertolotti's  very  door.  From 
inside  the  swinging  doors  of  the  basement  came 
a  continuous  uproar,  and  Julie,  as  they  started 
down  the  steps,  whispered  that  they  might  not 
be  able  to  get  in  downstairs.  But  a  party  was 
coming  out  the  door  just  as  they  entered  and 
Julie  rushed  Zoe  to  a  long  table  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  low-ceilinged  room,  where  there 
were  two  vacant  chairs. 

Three  elderly  men  and  two  seedy,  but  never- 
theless joyous  women  sat  at  the  table,  and  when 
Julie  and  Zoe  sat  down  with  them  they  greeted 
the  newcomers  vociferously. 

"Other  people  didn't  like  us.  Went  away. 
Uptown,"  one  of  the  men  vouchsafed  eagerly  to 
Zoe.  "But  you'll  like  us.  Just  you  see.  You 
and  your  friend." 

"Ask  him  how  we  can  get  some  wine,"  Julie 
hissed  in  Zoe's  ear. 


130  WHITHER 

The  gentleman  gave  a  knowing  wink  and  pro- 
duced a  large  flask  from  his  pocket. 

"Carry  own  scenery,  little  girl.  Carry  own 
scenery,"  he  observed,  cunningly.  "Eh  wot, 
George?  George  and  Tom  and  me,  we've  been 
in  every  place  in  town  with  our  little  friends 
since  three  this  afternoon."  George  and  Tom 
nodded  solemn  corroboration  and  the  speaker 
turned  to  Zoe,  generously,  "You  and  your  little 
friend  can  have  some,  too,  you  know.  I  don't 
want  to  be  any  pig.  I  said  to  George  and  Tom 
today,  I  said,  'George,'  I  said,  'you  and  Tom 
and  me,  we  aren't  going  to  be  pigs  with  this 
just  because  we're  rich  and  influential  and  can 
afford  to  buy  it,'  I  said.  And  then  we  came 
across  these  two  little  girls  up  at  the  Algonquin 
and  they  were  hungry  and  thirsty  and  George 
and  Tom,  they  said  they  looked  seedy,  but  I 
said,  'I  don't  care,  George,  you  and  Tom  and 
me,  we'll  just  buy  them  a  good  square  dinner, 
and  give  them  all  the  liquor  they  want  like  good 
Christians.'    Didn't  I  say  that,  George?" 

George,  with  excellent  humor,  admitted  the 
truth  of  his  friend's  words,  and,  waxing  his  limp, 
grayish  moustache,  applied  himself  to  Julie  with 
the  most  formal  assiduousness.  The  two  women 
laughed  constantly  and  made  much  of  the  large, 
pink  man  between  them  who  was  apparently 
"Tom." 

"What's  the  sawdust  on  the  floor?"  demanded 
Zoe  of  the  voluble  man  on  her  left. 


WHITHER  131 

"Hospital  street,"  offered  George,  blandly. 
"See,  Al?" 

"Silly  thing,"  Al  rebuked,  gravely,  "no  hos- 
pital street  at  all.  They  have  sawdust  instead 
of  cus — cus — cuspidors.  How  about  a  little 
drink,  little  girl?" 

Zoe  didn't  think  she  wanted  a  drink,  but  Julie 
leaned  toward  her. 

"It's  all  right,  Zoe.  Let's  have  some.  It's 
Christmas,  anyway.  See,  everybody's  got  some- 
thing with  them.  It's  always  the  same  on  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year's  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

Her  face  was  flushed  and  Zoe,  with  some 
alarm,  thought  that  perhaps  Julie  was  too  des- 
perately bent  on  being  free  to  be  discreet. 

"  'Sgood  stuff,"  one  of  the  women  advised  Zoe. 

After  all,  Zoe  reflected,  what  were  people 
always  on  guard  for,  anyway?  Better  when 
you're  sixty  to  have  something  to  regret  than  to 
wonder  what  would  have  happened  if  you'd 
obeyed  your  impulses.  Zoe  caught  a  glimpse 
of  herself  in  a  mirror  and  was  amazed  to  see 
how  transformed  she  was  in  her  borrowed  cos- 
tume. She  looked  an  entirely  different  person, 
as  women  always  do  in  a  different  style  of  hat 
than  they  are  used  to  wearing.  Her  olive-green 
coat  with  its  Parisian  cut  looked  svelte  and 
gorgeously  subdued. 

Zoe  accepted  the  small  paper  cup  that  Al 
proffered,  as  Julie  accepted  hers.  The  thing  was 
to  act  sophisticated.    Zoe,  acting  sophisticated, 


132  WHITHER 

did  what  George  designated  as  "hooking  'er 
over,"  and  was  amazed  to  find  that  no  one  else 
was  finishing  his  at  a  single  gulp  at  all.  Al 
delightedly  refilled  her  cup  and  Zoe,  feeling  in 
excellent  spirits,  took  the  second  drink  with 
equal  speed. 

"That's  what  I  said  to  George,  I  said  for  us 
not  to  be  pigs,"  Al  earnestly  repeated.  "Only, 
little  girl,  you  don't  want  it  all,  do  you?" 

"No,"  Zoe  assured  him,  "that's  what  I  said 
to  Julie.  I  said,  'June>  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
pig,'  I  said." 

Al  applauded  this  vigorously. 

"And  now,"  he  announced,  "I've  arranged — 
or  I'm  going  to  arrange — for  a  little  Christmas 
program.  I  want  to  ask  George  to  recite  that 
little  Christmas  story.  I  want  George  to  recite 
that  little  Christmas  story.  George,  come  on 
and  recite  that  little  Christmas  story." 

"I  will,"  said  Tom.  "George  can't  recite,  Al, 
and  you  know  it.    It's  me  that  has  the  talent." 

"Then  I'm  going  to  sing  Mother  Machree," 
whimpered  George,  his  moustache  drooping  un- 
happily, "and  I'd  rather  sing  it,  anyway." 

"Shush!  Shush! "  Al  hissed  warningly,  so  warn- 
ingly,  in  fact,  that  when  Tom  arose  and  stood, 
with  one  hand  resting  lightly  on  his  chair,  there 
was  a  silence  over  the  neighboring  tables  as 
well. 

"Tell  story  of  fella  and  a  girl,"  Tom  began,  a 
look  of  determination  on  his  vast,  pink  face. 


WHITHER  133 

"Married.  Christmas  was  coming  and  fella  was 
broke,  and  the  girl,  she  was  broke,  too,  on 
account  of  their  being  married.  Beautiful  white 
snow  was  falling,"  he  waved  a  large,  fat  hand, 
helplessly,  "like  tonight.  Beautiful  white  snow. 
And  he  said,  he  said  to  his  wife,  'Wife,'  he  said, 
'I'm  broke,  and  it's  Christmas.  Beautiful  white 
snow  is  falling.  But,'  he  said,  'I  guess  that 
doesn't  make  any  difference  because,  dear  wife, 
I  haven't  any  Christmas  present  to  give  you.' 
Said  he  didn't  have  any  Christmas  present  for 
her.  Well,  she  said  she  didn't  have  any  for 
him,  only,  she  said  she  wished  she  could  give 

him  a  watch  and  chain.     Said  she  could " 

he  faltered  again  and  made  a  wide,  vague 
gesture. 

"Said  she  wished  she  could  get  him  watch  and 
chain,"  prompted  George,  and  Tom  took  it  up 
gratefully. 

"Watch  and  chain  she  said  she  wished  she 

could  give  him.     But  you  see "  a  look  of 

pained  surprise  came  over  Tom's  face.  He  went 
on  determinedly,  "Beautiful  white  snow  like  to- 
night was  falling.  And  she  gave  him  beautiful 
Christmas  present — Watch  and  chain  just  like 
I  said,  and  he  gave  her  beautiful  gold  comb. 

Beautiful  gold  comb  he  gave  her.     Only " 

Tom  balanced  himself  and  frowned  in  a  painful 
effort  at  remembering.  Fortunately  his  memory 
had  not  been  affected  in  the  slightest  by  his 
drinking,  for  he  wound  up  triumphantly,  "Only 


134  WHITHER 

she  didn't  have  any  hair.  She  didn't  have  any 
hair.    Not  a  stitch." 

He  sat  down  amid  thunderous  applause,  which 
he  rose  and  acknowledged,  long  after  it  had  sub- 
sided, with  a  grateful  bow  and  a  little  speech  of 
appreciation. 

Zoe,  flushed  and  excited,  had  courteously 
accepted  two  more  "hookers"  as  Al  termed 
them,  and  felt  impelled  to  give  a  recitation  of 
her  own.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  to  do. 

"You  can't  unless  it's  about  Christmas,"  said 
Tom,  jealously. 

"  'Course  she  can,"  soothed  Al,  "you  ain't 
going  to  be  a  pig  again,  are  you,  Tom?" 

Julie,  her  hat  off,  clapped  feverishly. 

"Please,  Zoe — please  do  something.  I  just 
love  recitations." 

Zoe  rose  and  laboriously  twisted  her  chair 
sidewise.  It  was  queer  how  light  and  graceful 
she  felt,  how  deft  her  hands  seemed  to  be  and 
yet  what  a  frightful  noise  that  chair  made.  A 
dish  or  something  clattered  to  the  floor,  too, 
each  time  she  made  a  particularly  deft  motion 
toward  the  table. 

"  'Sfireplace — this  chair's  fireplace,"  she  ex- 
plained. "Colonel  Winter  and  the  Major  apt  to 
come  in  any  minute.  Keep  it  in  mind.  Ziz  the 
way  it  goes: 

"I'd  rather  be  a  nutmeg  than  a  tootsie  roll, 
I'd  rather  be  a  hoptoad  than  a  flea, 


WHITHER  135 

And  though  I'd  like  to  be  a  set  of  sideburns, 
I'd  rather  be  an  asafediti." 

She  sat  down  to  shouts  of  laughter  from  other 
tables.  She  felt  elated  and  warm  inside,  but 
curiously  fuzzy  in  her  brain.    Al  was  delighted. 

How  handsome  Al  was!  What  a  beautiful 
restaurant  it  was!  How  distinguished  looking 
Tom  was — just  like  an  enormous  Humpty 
Dumpty  egg.  And  how  gloriously  happy  she 
was! 

"Rather  be  a  hoptoad,  she  would,"  Al  re- 
peated, laughing  immoderately.  "Little  girl  said 
she'd  rather  be  an  asa-asa-asafediti." 

He  repeated  this,  chuckling  to  himself  and 
beaming  at  Zoe.  Julie,  though  shaking  with 
laughter,  eyed  Zoe  with  some  concern. 

"Put  your  coat  on,  Zoe,  we've  got  to  go," 
she  whispered. 

"But,  Julie,  I  have  to  eat  a  zabelogni,"  said 
Zoe,  crossly.  If  that  wasn't  like  a  girl  to  take 
one  right  away  in  the  midst  of  the  fun!  "Al  said 
I  certainly  had  to  eat  a  zabelogni." 

"Can't  do  it,"  said  Julie,  decisively.  "We  have 
an  engagement  at  eleven.    Come  on." 

She  paid  their  check  and  fairly  dragged  Zoe 
away,  Al  and  Tom  pleading  for  them  to  remain. 

"I  was  having  such  a  good  time,"  wailed  Zoe. 

"It's  always  the  best  time  to  leave,  while 
you're  having  a  good  time,"  said  Julie,  sagely, 
"but  Al  and  George  were  getting  along  too  fast. 


136  WHITHER 

Next  thing  you  know  we'd  all  have  been  per- 
fectly drunk.    There's  a  man  speaking  to  you." 

Zoe  blinked  and  looked  straight  into  the  eyes 
of  Bill  Cornell,  who  sat  with  a  party  of  seven 
or  eight  near  the  door.  In  spite  of  her  dazed 
state  she  read  in  his  eyes  something  she  had 
never  read  before — interest. 

"Man  from  office,"  she  breathed  to  Julie,  out- 
side, "Bill  Cornell.  You  don't  think,  Julie,  that 
he  saw  me  there  at  the  table?" 

She  was  frightened  almost  into  sobriety. 

Julie  gurgled. 

"I'd  like  to  know  how  he  could  help  it.  You 
were  the  most  conspicuous  person  in  the  room." 

Zoe  was  subdued. 

As  they  stood  outside  the  door,  a  little  doubt- 
ful as  to  where  they  were  going,  a  small  man 
with  a  big  tray  paused  beside  them.  He  had 
long  hair  and  somber  big  eyes. 

"It's  Tiny  Tim,"  whispered  Julie,  convul- 
sively.   "God  bless  us,  every  one!" 

"Soul  candy?"  he  questioned  them,  uncover- 
ing a  small  open  pasteboard  packet  with  a  few 
large  candies  in  it.  "Made  from  the  inspiration 
of  dreams,  symphonies  of  flavors,  made  for 
beautiful  people.  You"- — he  spoke  to  Zoe — 
"whose  soul  is  purple  will  need  this  packet, 
created  for  women  with  purple  souls.  Yours" 
— his  solemn  eyes  turned  to  Julie — "is  cardinal 
red." 

"Cardinal  red  for  cardinal  sins,"  scoffed  Julie. 


WHITHER  137 

She  produced  a  quarter  and  the  poetic  candy- 
vendor  took  his  wares  into  the  restaurant  below, 
from  whence  George's  sonorous  tenor  could  be 
heard  in  the  opening  strains  of  "Mother 
Machree." 

Julie  and  Zoe,  arm  in  arm,  walked  up  toward 
Washington  Square,  its  friendly  darkness  re- 
lieved by  the  falling  snow  which  swirled  around 
the  dim  street  lamps  with  increasing  speed.  A 
party  of  Villagers,  obviously  in  masquerade 
costume,  passed  them  in  front  of  the  little  cigar 
store.  A  pretty  girl  in  gypsy  dress,  barefooted 
and  uncloaked,  stopped  and  smiled  at  them 
invitingly. 

"Come  over  to  Bobby  Edward's  Ball — over  at 
Webster  Hall,"  she  called  over  her  shoulder. 

"Let's  go,"  suggested  Zoe.  Now  she  felt  sad 
and  very  sleepy.  Perhaps  one  of  the  famous 
Village  masquerades  would  be  fun.  Julie  shook 
her  head  and  led  her  silently  into  the  darkness 
of  the  park. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Julie,  as  they  came  to  a 
bench  out  of  the  misty  circle  of  lamplight.  She 
sat  down  limply  without  brushing  the  snow  off 
the  bench,  and  Zoe  seated  herself  beside  her. 
They  sat,  huddled  together,  silently,  with  the 
snow  falling  about  them  for  several  minutes. 
Presently  Julie  began  to  cry  softly. 

"I'm  so  happy,"  she  whispered,  chokingly, 
"because — because,"  she  ended  in  a  heartbroken 
sob,  "I'm  going  to  be  married." 


138  WHITHER 

"Yes,"  Zoe  began  to  weep,  too,  "isn't  it 
wonderful?" 

They  sat  crying  together  softly  for  a  long 
time.  When  they  remembered  and  started  to 
go  home,  the  busses  had  stopped  running  and 
they  had  to  go  over  to  Sheridan  Square  and 
take  the  subway. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Julie  had  told  Alphonse  distinctly  that  she 
didn't  want  to  see  him  until  exactly  three  o'clock 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-ninth  at  the 
Little  Church  Around  the  Corner.  But  on  the 
twenty-seventh,  as  Julie  was  sorting  out  the  silk 
stockings  that  were  suitable  for  her  trousseau 
and  those  that  were  more  suitable  for  Clematia, 
Alphonse  called  up  and  begged  her  to  dine  with 
him. 

"You  must  come,  Julie,"  he  begged.  "It  is 
something  very,  very  important.  Some  things  I 
must  tell  you  before  we  are  truly  married.  Some 
things  you  must  know.  I  have  been  thinking 
about  them  and  my  conscience — it  hurts  me." 

"Very  well,"  said  Julie,  wearily. 

The  business  of  getting  married  was  not  at  all 
adventuresome  and  Julie  was  thoroughly  bored 
with  it.  It  is  possible  that  if  every  one  had  not 
been  so  skeptical  of  her  matrimonial  intentions, 
Julie  would  have  broken  the  engagement  as  she 
usually  did.  As  it  was,  she  did  not  permit  her- 
self to  think  of  such  a  thing.  She  was  a  woman 
of  honor,  she  told  herself  repeatedly.  And  she'd 
die  rather  than  let  those  cats  say  "I  told  you 
so"  again. 

She;  met  Alphonse  at  the  Cafe  Mollatt  on 
139 


140  WHITHER 

Forty-ninth  Street,  their  customary  dining  place. 
It  was  early  and  few  people  were  dining  yet. 
They  took  a  table  near  a  solitary  young  man, 
who  eyed  Julie  appreciatively  as  they  sat  down. 
Alphonse  looked  pale  and  haggard  and  Julie  was 
mildly  interested  in  what  he  had  to  tell  that 
could  affect  him  so  strongly. 

"I  had  to  have  this  meeting,"  Alphonse  said  in 
his  halting,  deliberate  English.  "We  have  been 
engaged — how  long?  Four  weeks.  And  I  have 
not  told  you  even  yet  of  my  past.  It  is  un- 
thinkable." 

"I  haven't  told  you  of  mine,  either,"  Julie  said 
honestly. 

Alphonse  refused  to  have  his  error  condoned. 
He  looked  sadly  at  Julie. 

"I  could  not  let  my  wife — my  dear,  innocent, 
little  wife — find  out  about  my  past  from  some 
one  else,  could  I?  How  should  I  feel  if  on  our 
honeymoon  some  one  should  approach  you  and 
say,  'That  man  once  ruined  my  life'?  Ah  no,  my 
dear  Julie,  it  is  better  that  you  should  hear  it 
all  from  me." 

Julie  endeavored  to  look  very  moral. 

"In  that  case,  Alphonse,"  she  said,  "it  is  only 
right  that  I  should  tell  you  some  of  the  things 
that  belong  to  my  past,  as  well." 

Alphonse  permitted  himself  an  indulgent 
smile. 

"What  past  could  a  girl  of  twenty-two  have, 
my  dearest?    I  am  a  man  of  the  world — twenty- 


WHITHER  141 

eight  years  old — and  I  am  afraid  I  have  had  only 
too  much  experience,  Julie,  to  make  a  good  hus- 
band for  you." 

He  sighed.  But  Julie  rose  nobly  to  meet  the 
occasion. 

" Perhaps  you  won't  think  you  are  so  wicked 
when  I  confess  some  of  my — affairs,"  and  Julie 
looked  reminiscent  and  not  a  little  proud. 
Alphonse,  however,  brushed  her  aside  with  a 
tragic  gesture. 

"I  should  begin,  perhaps,  with  Pepita,  the 
belle  of  the  Honduras.  I  was  fourteen  at  the 
time.  She  was  so  beautiful,"  Alphonse's  eyes 
lit  up  for  an  instant  but  were  quickly  subdued. 
"I  met  her  at  a  ball  in  Tegucigalpa.  Imagine  my 
astonishment  when  she  showed  her  favoritism 
for  me — a  mere  boy — so  plainly.  But  the  story 
is  too  shameful — too  shameful." 

"Don't  tell  me,"  begged  Julie,  "I  understand 
it  all  perfectly.  Why,  I  can  remember  a  time 
from  my  own  experience.  I  was  seventeen,  and 
we  were  at  Atlantic  City.  A  man  was  there 
— terribly  handsome,  and  utterly  fascinating. 
I " 

Alphonse  again  brushed  her  aside. 

"What  could  you — an  innocent,  little  seven- 
teen-year-old debutante — do  that  was  not  quite 
perfect?  After  Pepita  came  Isabella,  the  most 
dangerously  beautiful  woman  in  all  Central 
America.  We  walked — that  first  time — in  a 
little  court,  lingering  by  the  fountain.    She  con- 


142  WHITHER 

fessed  her  feeling  for  me,  and  I — but  what  could 
I  do?" 

"I  understand,  Alphonse.  I  understand  per- 
fectly," Julie  assured  him,  a  little  impatiently. 
After  all,  turn  about  was  fair  play.  She  was 
anxious  to  tell  a  few  things,  too.  "It  reminds 
me  of  the  time  in  Denver  when  Johnny  Beekman 
followed  me  all  the  way  into  my  hotel  room — " 

"You  do  not  know  about  Juanita,  though, 
Julie,"  Alphonse  went  on,  sadly.  "It  breaks  my 
heart  to  tell  you  of  these  shameful  spots  in 
my  life.  It  was  on  the  ship  coming  from 
Nassau.  Juanita  chanced  to  catch  sight  of  me, 
and  threw  herself  at  once  at  my  head.  What 
could  I  do?  Yet,  Julie,  I  want  you  to  see  me 
at  my  blackest.    I  want  you  to  know  all." 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  Alphonse,"  said  Julie, 
earnestly.  "I  was  recalling  a  boat  experience 
of  my  own.  Frank  Benton  was  his  name — a 
stunning  fellow.  We  sat  there  on  the  deck  one 
night " 

"How  can  I  tell  you  about  Margaret?" 
Alphonse  almost  sobbed,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hand,  "so  fair  and  sweet.  She  was  from  one 
of  your  own  Southern  States.  Such  beautiful 
lips,  Julie.  She  used  to  write  me  such  passion- 
ate letters.  Ah,  they  stabbed  me.  What  was 
one  to  do?  The  girl  was  infatuated.  She  could 
not  believe  it  would  ever  pass  away.  Ah,  Julie, 
you  would  fling  me  from  you  if  you  knew  the 
true  story  of  Margaret." 


WHITHER  143 

"Oh,  no,  Alphonse,"  Julie  said,  a  reminiscent 
look  in  her  eye.  "After  all,  how  can  I  blame 
you  for  Margaret  when  I  remember  Howard? 
It  was  at  Los  Angeles,  the  winter  Father  took 
Lucy  and  me  to  see " 

"You  are  too  good  to  me,  Julie,"  Alphonse 
sighed.  "You  would  never  look  at  me  again 
if  I  were  to  tell  you  of  the  little  English  girl — 
ah,  so  charming.  Lois!  Lois  and  I  were  at  the 
same  hotel  at  your  Palm  Beach.  Lois — but  how 
can  I  tell  you  about  Lois?  If  I  were  to  tell  you, 
Julie,  you  would  send  me  away  from  you  for- 
ever.   You  would " 

"Nonsense,  Alphonse.  Of  course  I  would 
understand,"  said  Julie,  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
scarcely  paying  any  attention  to  Alphonse's 
words,  so  absorbed  was  she  in  the  recollection 
of  her  own  glorious  adventures  of  the  past  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years.  Junior  Proms,  vacations 
in  the  Maine  woods,  vacations  in  Honolulu,  two 
years  as  a  co-ed,  debuts  in  three  cities,  and 
everywhere  men,  men,  men.  Engagements  on 
the  stage  because  of  men.  All  kinds  of  engage- 
ments because  of  men.  Indeed,  Julie  began  to 
think  she  had  never  exchanged  more  than  a 
dozen  words  with  any  of  her  own  sex  until  she 
came  to  Mrs.  Home's.  Remembering  an  end- 
less string  of  episodes,  Julie  lapsed  into  a  coma- 
tose state  while  Alphonse  went  on  and  on  with 
his  own  memoirs,  which,  it  appeared,  were 
shameful  enough,  though  hardly  regretted. 


144  WHITHER 

Julie's  eyes  in  the  wall  mirror  suddenly  caught 
the  eye  of  the  young  man  at  the  next  table.  It 
occurred  to  her  that,  in  other  days,  she  had 
tested  her  love  by  asking  herself  if  she  had  or 
had  not  noticed  the  man  at  the  next  table,  while 
dining  with  her  at-the-moment  fiance.  If  she 
had  not  noticed  him,  then  it  was  love.  Julie 
smiled  half  sadly  at  her  past  naivete.  This  very 
man,  now,  if  she  were  not  engaged  to  marry 
Alphonse  in  two  days,  would  interest  her  im- 
mensely. He  had  a  strong,  pleasantly  ugly  face, 
and  she  would  have  liked  the  way  he  smiled, 
for  he  did  smile  when  he  caught  Julie's  eye. 
There  is  something  really  funny  about  acci- 
dentally catching  people's  eyes  in  mirrors.  Julie 
had  to  admit  it. 

" and  her  mother,  too,  begged  me  to  stay. 

But  I  only  kissed  the  girl  madly  and  ran  from 
the  house.    Julie,  I " 

Julie  was  remembering  the  thrill  of  meeting 
new  men. 

It  was  the  only  thing  that  made  life  worth 
while  for  women.  If  one  went  on  a  street  car, 
a  subway,  a  bus,  a  Pullman,  always  one's 
thought  was,  "Wonder  if  there'll  be  a  decent 
man  on  board?"  Every  movement  thus  became 
full  of  significance.  One  speculated,  too,  on  just 
what  type  of  fiance  one  would  swing  to  from 
the  one  in  hand.  Usually  Julie  swung  from 
Latins  to  Scotch  or  British,  back  to  Americans. 
For  instance,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events, 


WHITHER  145 

she  would  go  from  Alphonse's  beautiful  roman- 
ticism to  the  humorous  practicality  of — say,  the 
man  at  the  next  table. 

" but  what  can  one  say  in  a  letter?    The 

only  way  I  could  have  atoned  for  breaking  her 
heart  would  be  to  have  married  her.  Yet  why 
should  I  break  my  heart  and  yours,  Julie,  for  a 
little  governess  in  Mentone?" 

Julie,  by  a  superhuman  effort,  plucked  her 
mind  from  the  beautiful,  bad  past  to  the  dreary, 
conventional  future.  She  was  to  marry  Al- 
phonse.  No  longer  would  she  thrill  with  eager 
joy  in  living  every  time  she  left  her  house,  won- 
dering what  and  whom  it  would  be  today.  No 
longer  would  she  lift  her  lips  for  new  kisses. 
Always  they  would  be  Alphonse's.  And  Al- 
phonse  did  not  kiss  vibratingly.  He  kissed  in 
a  sort  of  moist,  hot  way.  One  forgot  one's 
pleasure  in  one's  distaste.  No,  Julie  told  herself 
in  a  sort  of  aghast  wonder,  what  would  there  be 
left  to  live  for?  There  would  be  no  meaning  to 
anything  any  more.  There  would  no  longer  be 
danger  to  lure  one  on.  Julie,  looking  whitely 
into  the  mirror,  gripped  her  hands  together. 

"You  are  ill — what  is  it?"  Alphonse  cried  out, 
in  alarm.    "What  is  it,  Julie,  darling?" 

"Nothing.  I — I  was  only  thinking — thinking 
about  Kenneth,"  Julie  answered,  "that's  all." 

Alphonse  drew  his  heavy,  dark  brows  together. 

"Kenneth?  That  must  be  some  one  I  do  not 
know.    A  cousin,  perhaps?" 


146  WHITHER 

"No.     Kenneth "     Julie  seemed  to  see 

herself  in  organdy  and  lace,  a  flower-trimmed 
hat  on  her  hair,  daintily  picking  her  way  through 
groups  of  pretty  women  and  bronzed  men  on  a 
color-spotted,  rainbow-parasoled  beach.  Sud- 
denly a  dark  shadow  blocked  her  path  and  im- 
pelled her  to  look  up.  She  saw  a  sun-browned 
young  giant  before  her,  gleaming  and  dripping 
from  his  swim — and  he  was  staring  at  her  as  if — 
as  if — ah,  she  remembered  now  how  he  had  put 
it — "as  if  he'd  died  and  gone  to  heaven."  Ken- 
neth. She  hadn't  thought  of  him  for  ages. 
Funny  he  should  come  back  at  that  instant. 

"Some  one  I  knew  a  long,  long  time  ago." 

Alphonse  was  wide-eyed. 

"Julie — what — what  do  you  mean?" 

Julie  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  shrug. 

"An  old  affair,  Alphonse,  dear.  Nothing  of 
importance  now." 

"Do  you  mean,"  Alphonse's  voice  was  low 
and  tense,  "that — that  there  have  been  other 
men  in  your  life,  Julie?" 

"Of  course,  Alphonse.    I  tried  to  tell  you — " 

The  Spaniard  half  rose  in  his  seat,  his  long, 
white  face  rigid. 

"But  Julie!  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying!  You  don't  mean  you  were  ever  engaged 
to  another  man?" 

Julie  was  puzzled.  What  was  the  man  driving 
at? 

"Of  course.    As  I  tried  to  explain,  I " 


WHITHER  147 

"Do  you  not  know  what  that  means?  How 
can  my  wife — the  wife  of  Alphonse  Antonio 
Padilla — have  known  other  men,  perhaps  even 
permitted  them  to  kiss  her — ah,  Julie!" 

Slowly  Julie's  eyes  came  to  rest  on  his  white 
face  and  burning  eyes.  She  twisted  the  hoop  of 
diamonds  on  her  finger  thoughtfully,  and  held  it 
for  a  moment  in  her  hand  before  dropping  it  on 
the  table.    She  fumbled  for  her  cloak. 

"What— what " 

Alphonse  looked  at  her  haggardly,  breathing 
hard. 

"Good-by,  Alphonse." 

"Julie,  why  did  you  tell  me — why " 

He  caught  her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately, 
but  Julie  drew  it  gently  away.  His  dark  head 
drooped  into  his  outspread  hands,  the  ring  un- 
heeded on  the  table  before  him.  Julie  rose  and 
walked  toward  the  door.  As  she  passed  the 
piano  she  remembered  to  bow  to  old  Rigo,  the 
long-haired  professor,  who  had  finished  his  violin 
and  piano  solos,  and  was  now  prepared  to  give 
an  impassioned  rendition  of  the  Prologue  from 
Pagliacci.  He  returned  her  nod  with  a  deep, 
flattered  salaam.  Julie  went  on  out.  The  young 
man  from  the  next  table  was  standing  in  the 
door  of  the  cloak-room  struggling  with  his  over- 
coat. He  looked  at  Julie  and  smiled  his  big, 
gleaming  smile. 

Julie  smiled  back. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Zoe  had  been  very  preoccupied  with  her  work 
at  the  office  ever  since  the  Christmas  Eve  cele- 
bration which  Bill  Cornell  had  witnessed.  In 
fact,  so  tremendous  was  her  interest  in  her  work, 
that  she  barely  said  good-morning  to  him  any 
more,  but  slid  into  her  desk  chair  and  buried 
her  nose  in  her  papers  before  he  could  speak. 
The  new  girl,  Blanche  Clay,  giggled  and  whis- 
pered with  the  men  over  her  copy,  but  Zoe  never 
so  much  as  joined  in  a  single  conversation.  She 
had  caught  herself  looking  on  wistfully  three  or 
four  times  before,  but  now  she  did  not  dare  to 
look  up  from  her  work.  Bill  Cornell  might  say 
something  scorching  about  that  Christmas  Eve. 

Not  that  Zoe  regretted  the  party.  Indeed, 
like  any  other  woman,  she  looked  fondly  back 
on  her  greatest  indiscretion.  Only  she  was  not 
at  all  sure  what  she  would  do  if  some  one  should 
take  her  to  task  for  it.  She  was  not  going  to 
give  Bill  Cornell  a  chance  to  show  how  little 
he  respected  her  any  more.  She  was  so  afraid 
he  might  say  what  he  thought  about  it,  that, 
several  times  when  he  started  toward  her  desk, 
lighting  a  cigarette — always  a  sure  preliminary 
to  light  conversation — Zoe  had  scrambled  up 
and  out  to  the  file  room  to  demand  of  Maisie 
some  mythical  record. 

148 


WHITHER  149 

Blanche  Clay  apparently  was  quick  to  notice 
Cornell's  sudden  absorption  in  Zoe,  for  she  flat- 
tered Zoe  by  becoming  very  catty.  Zoe  did  not 
understand  it  at  all.  One  day  Allan  Myers 
seated  himself  on  her  desk  and  swung  his  lanky 
legs,  and  Zoe,  looking  up,  was  so  relieved  to 
see  that  it  was  not  Cornell  that  she  smiled  daz- 
zlingly.  Allan  had  meant  to  ask  her  to  do  some 
copy  he  did  not  fancy  doing,  but  he  was  so  sur- 
prised by  her  cordiality  that  he  stayed  and  talked 
charmingly  of  everything  else  in  the  world  but 
the  thing  he  had  intended  to.  He  didn't  intend 
to  stay  in  advertising  long,  he  said,  but  eventu- 
ally to  isolate  himself  in  his  Barrow  Street 
room  and  write — of  course  in  the  modern,  futur- 
istic style — Paterian  comments  on  life.  He  was 
surprised  that  Zoe,  too,  had  aspirations  toward 
fame. 

Blanche,  who  had  tried  in  vain  to  interest 
Allan,  looked  on  with  annoyance  and  went  out 
to  lunch  with  Peggy,  a  sign  of  unusual  stress, 
since  she  and  Peggy  were  sufficiently  of  a  type 
to  be  rivals  about  the  office. 

Kane  was  looking  very  weary  these  days  and 
Zoe  found  herself  thinking  that,  after  all,  when 
a  man  is  past  thirty  he  is — well,  past  thirty. 
Not  that  there  wasn't  a  fascination  in  his 
maturity.  She  heard  whispered  rumors  about 
his  matrimonial  affairs  as  well  as  differences  with 
the  head  of  the  firm.  He  had  not  lived  with  his 
wife  for  years,  but  she  persisted  in  trying  to 


150  WHITHER 

effect  a  reconciliation  he  did  not  wish.  He 
frequently  consulted  Zoe  on  little  points  of 
approach  in  their  advertising,  for  Zoe  could  tell 
him  how  the  feminine  public  reacted  to  certain 
ads  and  what  touch  was  needed  to  make  the 
appeal  irresistible. 

Kane  came  in  while  Allan  was  talking  to  Zoe 
and  she  detected  a  certain  irritation  in  his  man- 
ner. She  was  embarrassed,  since  she  and  Allan 
were  so  obviously  wasting  office  time.  He  gave 
her  one  of  his  charming  smiles,  however,  and 
spoke  to  Allan  about  some  new  account.  He 
nodded  to  Mr.  Milton  and  Mr.  Crawford,  who 
were  exchanging  low-voiced  confidences  concern- 
ing certain  recalcitrant  prospects. 

"And  I  said,  why,  I  said,  look  at  the  way  these 
people  are  wasting  your  good  money.  Do  you 
think  men  like  to  be  told  that  shaving  cream  is 
a  'dainty,  exquisitely  scented,  lavender  cream?' 
Hell,  no." 

Allan  went  back  to  his  desk  and,  in  a  moment 
or  two,  went  out  to  lunch.  Zoe  looked  after 
him,  hungrily.  She  wished  she  had  been  even 
nicer  so  that  he  would  have  invited  her  to  go, 
too.  But  there  were  only  four  pennies  in  her 
pocket.  She  would  get  some  from  Maisie  later 
in  the  afternoon,  maybe.  Meantime  she'd  pre- 
tend to  have  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do  to 
account  for  her  not  going  out  to  lunch. 

Being  broke  was  a  chronic  state  with  Zoe 
ever  since  Christmas.    She  managed  to  keep  up 


WHITHER  151 

with  her  room  rent  by  paying  it  in  advance 
whenever  she  did  have  any  money.  The  rest 
of  the  time  she  was  borrowing  from  Maisie  and 
sometimes  Fania.  Julie,  when  she  had  her  allow- 
ance, would  empty  her  purse  on  the  bed  and 
divide  it  into  two  equal  piles,  one  for  herself 
and  one  for  Zoe.  And  Zoe  did  the  same  with  her 
salary  when  Julie  was  low.  This  was  never 
reckoned  as  borrowing.  It  was  just  dividing. 
Once  Zoe  had  thought  of  her  salary  as  a  mag- 
nificent one.  Now  it  seemed  pitifully  inade- 
quate, for  she  was  buying  clothes.  Julie  had  told 
her — and  Fania  and  Margot  had  agreed — that 
no  woman  had  any  excuse  for  not  being  perfectly 
groomed  at  all  times. 

"If  you  must  economize,  do  without  lunch," 
Julie  advised,  "but  for  heaven's  sake  don't  try 
to  do  without  a  manicure  every  Saturday  or  a 
marcel.  And  you  can  do  without  new  dresses 
but  don't  skimp  on  the  very  best  underthings 
and  silk  stockings  and  French  hankies  and  hand- 
make  lace  collars  and  ruffles.  Those  are  the 
things  one  simply  has  to  have,  Zoe.  You  think 
it's  silly  to  take  those  things  so  seriously,  but, 
my  dear,  a  girl's  happiness  depends  on  her  looks 
and  her  looks  depend  on  such  trifles  as  those!" 

Those  little  touches  took  large  chunks  from 
Zoe's  salary  every  week.  It  was  amazing  to  see 
oneself  acquire  such  chic,  and  to  see  what  a  dif- 
ference it  made  in  one's  self-assurance,  and  even 
in  other  people's  attitude  toward  one.     It  was 


152  WHITHER 

such  an  intoxicating  game  that,  instead  of  catch- 
ing up  on  her  extravagances  by  stinting  herself, 
Zoe  had  taken  to  buying  whatever  appealed  to 
her,  being  guided  not  by  what  she  could  afford 
but  by  how  much  money  she  had  in  her  pocket 
at  the  moment. 

She  didn't  see  Maisie  all  day  and  at  closing 
time  forgot  about  it,  for  Bill  Cornell  was  deter- 
minedly helping  her  on  with  her  cloak  and  mur- 
muring, "Mind  if  I  walk  over  to  the  bus  with 
you?    Just  walking  that  way  myself." 

Zoe,  a  little  breathlessly,  said  that  she  didn't 
mind  at  all.  She  felt  hot  and  choky  as  they  went 
down  the  elevator  together.  He  took  her  arm 
as  they  left  the  elevator  and  Zoe  felt  an  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  lean  against  his  broad 
shoulder.    This,  she  thought,  must  be  love. 

"I  saw  you  with  Schuler  the  other  night,"  he 
announced  without  preamble  as  they  walked 
across  Madison  Park  in  the  dusk. 

"Who?"  demanded  Zoe.  "I  don't  know  any 
Schuler.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  person  unless 
you  mean  that  one  who  has  just  bought  the 
Peerless  Film  Company — the  one  the  papers  talk 
about." 

"That's  the  man,  all  right,"  Bill  said  quietly. 
"The  theatrical  guy.  I  saw  you  with  him  down 
at  Bertolotti's  that  night.  I  didn't  know  you 
traveled  in  his  crowd." 

Zoe  was  speechless.  Was  it  Al  who  was  the 
great  Schuler?     Or  was  it  George?     It  might 


WHITHER  153 

have  been  Tom.  She  was  inclined  to  think  it 
was  Al.  Truly,  liquor  was  a  great  leveler. 
Schuler  would  certainly  not  have  been  so  cordial 
if  he  had  been  sober.  And  she  hadn't  even 
known  his  last  name!  Julie  had  confessed  to 
a  sense  of  having  seen  Al  somewhere  before,  but 
she  thought  it  had  been  in  the  lobby  of  some 
hotel  and  had  deduced  that  he  belonged  to  the 
genus  lizard. 

"I  didn't  know,"  Zoe  said  musingly,  smiling 
at  the  utter  absurdity  of  the  coincidence.  It  was 
bad  enough  that  she  should  have  been  on  such 
hilarious  terms  with  the  notorious  Schuler  with- 
out having  the  man  she  was  most  desirous  of 
attracting  having  seen  her. 

Cornell  saw  the  smile. 

"I  must  say,  candidly,  that  I  was  startled,"  he 
went  on.  "You  see,  you  manage  to  give  the 
impression  around  the  office  of  being  sort  of  shy 
and  quiet.  When  I  saw  you  down  there  I 
couldn't  believe  my  eyes.  I  guess  you  had  been 
drinking  a  little,  too." 

Zoe  could  not  help  laughing  and  Cornell 
thought  it  sounded  callous,  evidently,  for  he  went 
on  without  looking  at  her. 

"You  think  it's  none  of  my  business,  but  I've 
been  sort  of  interested  in  you  ever  since  you 
came  in  there — the  office,  I  mean — and  I  was 
— oh,  I  don't  know — sorry  to  see  you  in  that 
party.  I  knew  this  was  your  first  year  in  New 
York  and "    It  occurred  to  Zoe  that  he  knew 


154  WHITHER 

more  than  he  ever  gave  any  evidence  of  knowing. 
She  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  "Of  course, 
Schuler  has  a  reputation  of  being  a  rounder  so 
far  as  girls  and  liquor  are  concerned  and " 

Zoe's  cue  came  like  an  inspiration. 

"But  he's  so  fascinating,"  she  demurred.  If 
Cornell  thought  he  was  going  to  save  her  from 
the  wicked  libertine  she'd  show  him  that  it  would 
take  quite  a  little  saving. 

Cornell's  jaw  set  rather  grimly. 

"He  may  be,  and  you've  a  perfect  right  to  tell 
me  to  shut  up,  only  I'm  like  any  other  decent 
man.  I  hate  to  see  a  nice  girl  walk  into  a  spider's 
trap  just  because  she's  here  in  New  York  alone 
and  doesn't  have  a  father  or  some  brothers  to 
knock  some  sense  into  her  head." 

Instead  of  being  angry,  Zoe  was  elated  at  this 
insulting  tone.    She  said  nothing. 

"I  like  to  drink  and  smoke  and  I  think  girls 
have  the  same  right,"  Cornell  went  on,  keeping 
his  eyes  straight  ahead,  "only — well,  I  don't 
know  just  how  to  describe  it  to  you,  but  when  I 
saw  you  down  there  that  night,  drinking,  I  felt 
— well,  sort  of  sorry.  I  knew  you  were  having 
a  good  time  and  all  that,  but  somehow  that  pic- 
ture of  you  down  there  drinking  with  that 
damned  Al  Schuler  has  stuck  in  my  mind  ever 
since.  I  knew  it  was  your  own  affair.  Just 
because  you  and  I  work  in  the  same  office  was 
no  reason  for  me  to  keep  tabs  on  your  good 
times.    But — well,  there  it  is.    A  woman  could 


WHITHER  155 

tell  you  why  I'm  butting  into  your  private  affairs 
like  this,  but  I  can't.    I  felt  like  it,  that's  all." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Zoe  thought, 
with  an  inner  glow,  he  was  quite  right  about 
that  statement.  A  woman  could  tell  why,  all 
right.  The  idea  of  being  reformed  struck  her 
as  so  utterly  ludicrous  that  she  could  barely 
keep  from  laughing  aloud.  But  since  this  man's 
first  move  in  her  direction  was  inspired  by  the 
zeal  to  reform  her,  she  saw  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  prolong  the  process  in  order  to  keep 
him  interested. 

"Of  course  it's  hard  to  refuse  a  good  time," 
she  said. 

They  were  standing  in  line  for  the  bus,  and 
there  was  a  very  black-eyed  stenographer  behind 
them,  who  seemed  to  be  as  interested  in  their 
conversation  as  she  was  in  Cornell's  blond  good 
looks. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that's  true,"  said  Cornell. 
"When  a  girl's  pretty  and  different  I  suppose  she 
gets  so  much  into  the  habit  of  having  lively 
times  that  it's  like  a  taste  for  red  pepper  and 
mustard.  Life  seems  sort  of  insipid  without 
them." 

Zoe  remembered  the  two  or  three  "lively 
times"  she  had  had  since  she  came  to  New  York 
and  was  ironically  amused. 

"If  you  girls  would  only  have  strength  of 
character  enough  to  turn  down  even  one  invi- 
tation a  week,"  said  Cornell,  a  trifle  impatiently. 


156  WHITHER 

"But  I've  yet  to  meet  a  girl  who  would  do  it 
unless  the  fellow  was  a  cripple  or  broke  or  some- 
thing." 

"How  do  you  know  I  go  out  every  night?" 
Zoe  demanded  after  a  pause,  permitting  the 
black-eyed  stenographer  to  edge  in  front  of  her, 
for  reasons  more  politic  than  polite. 

"Well,  you  can  tell,"  said  Cornell  shortly, 
and  Zoe,  diplomatically,  let  that  point  pass. 

"I  like  quiet  times,"  she  protested,  "really 
better  than  wild  ones.  Concerts,  exhibitions, 
plays — I'm  not  always  dashing  around  in  res- 
taurants sampling  bootleg." 

"Do  you  really?"  Cornell  asked  in  surprise. 
Zoe  had  always  looked  like  the  sort  of  person 
who  went  in  for  concerts  and  lectures  and  she 
knew  it,  but  apparently  the  evening  at  Berto- 
lotti's  had  stamped  her  as  a  wild,  reckless  species 
of  adventuress. 

"If  you  have  any  evenings  you  could  spare," 
Cornell  hesitated,  "perhaps  you  would  come  to 
the  theater  with  me.  I  don't  care  for  concerts, 
but  I  do  like  good  plays  and  musical  comedies. 
Of  course  it  may  seem  tame  entertainment  to 
you  after  Al  Schuler's  parties,  but  I  believe  it 
would  be  a  lot  better  for  you." 

Zoe  tried  to  look  doubtful. 

"I  think  I  could  save  an  evening  for  you  once 
in  a  while,"  she  said. 

"How  about  Friday?"  Cornell  demanded,  with 
flattering  promptness. 


WHITHER  157 

Zoe  forcibly  repressed  the  impulse  to  say, 
"Any  evening,"  and  answered  that  she'd  have  to 
look  it  up  when  she  got  home.  She'd  let  him 
know  in  the  morning,  she  said,  and  Cornell 
seemed  pleased  enough.  It  hadn't  occurred  to 
her  that  Cornell  might  be  flattering  himself  on 
having  made  a  difficult  conquest,  just  as  she 
was  doing.  It  flashed  across  her  mind  that  his 
idea  of  a  quiet  evening  was  to  her  the  height 
of  dissipation.  But  she  had  no  intention  of 
permitting  her  reformer  to  guess  that  much. 
If  he  fancied  himself  in  the  role  of  proselytist, 
why  she  would  be  the  reluctant  convert.  It 
was  the  only  logical  adjustment. 

A  Number  5  bus  was  now  in  and  the  line 
before  her  was  rapidly  diminishing.  Cornell  had 
to  stop  in  a  shop  before  going  up  to  his  club,  but 
he  waited  to  see  her  on  the  bus.  She  was  half- 
way up  the  stairs  of  the  bus  when  a  ghastly 
thought  struck  her.  She  saw  Cornell's  retreating 
figure  and  waved  frantically. 

"Oh,  Bill!     Bill!     Oh— Bill!" 

Cornell  wheeled  around  sharply  and  came 
back.    He  looked  up  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Will  you — will  you  loan  me  six  cents?"  Zoe, 
in  the  haste  of  the  moment,  with  a  fat  Jewish 
gentleman  glaring  behind  her,  did  not  stop  to 
make  explanations. 

Cornell  grinned.  He  reached  in  his  pocket. 
Zoe  thanked  him,  hurriedly,  and  was  in  her  seat 


158  WHITHER 

before  she  remembered  that  she  had  called  him 
Bill  instead  of  Mr.  Cornell,  as  she  should  have 
done.  Oddly  enough,  Cornell,  hurrying  up  Fifth 
Avenue,  was  thinking  about  that  same  thing. 
And,  for  some  reason,  he  was  whistling. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  personnel  of  Mrs.  Home's  was  gradually 
changing  as  spring  approached.  Amy  Bruce  had 
discreetly  vanished  with  announcements  of  a 
new  play  in  which  she  was  to  be  starred,  through 
what  means  no  one  was  in  doubt.  She  cordially 
invited  every  one  to  call  on  her  after  she  got 
established  in  her  new  place,  and  promised  to 
send  every  one  complimentary  tickets  to  the 
opening  night  of  her  performance.  As  she  neg- 
lected to  leave  her  address,  none  of  the  girls 
followed  up  her  invitation  to  call. 

Olive  Tanhill,  futile,  wavering  Olive,  was 
starting  a  tea  room  in  the  theatrical  district  and 
no  one,  thinking  of  the  ten  years  Olive  had  spent 
dabbling  in  dramatic  prospects,  told  her  she 
ought  not  to  sacrifice  her  career  to  commerce. 
It  was  vaguely  rumored  that  at  last  Olive's 
father  had  made  his  protest.  Either  she  came 
back  to  Fort  Wayne  or  she  started  making  some 
use  of  her  expensive  education  in  New  York. 
At  any  rate,  the  long-tried,  elderly  Tanhill  had 
no  intention  of  providing  a  liberal  allowance 
merely  for  his  daughter  to  waste  in  waiting  for 
mythical  opportunities.  And  Olive,  frightened 
at  last,  was  ready  to  jump  into  the  first  thing 
that  came  along.  Since  this  turned  out  to  be  a 
chance  at  a  third  ownership  in  an  artistic  tea 

159 


160  WHITHER 

shop  with  two  retired  actresses,  she  went  into  it 
without  demur  and,  strangely  enough,  proceeded 
to  get  quite  absorbed  in  the  thing.  Zoe  and 
Maisie,  lunching  there  one  Saturday,  were 
astonished  to  see  her  sitting  very  contentedly 
at  the  cashier's  desk.  Of  course  the  quiet  man 
of  forty  or  so,  who  was  always  seen  lunching 
there  and  seemed  to  be  an  old  friend  of  Olive's 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  her  serene 
acceptance  of  an  industrial  rather  than  artistic 
career.  But  no  one  was  ever  sure  of  this  until 
some  time  later. 

Enna,  too,  had  moved  over  to  a  popular  Art 
Club  with  her  stunning  wardrobe,  her  rented 
piano  and  her  scales.  The  cause  of  her  moving 
was  known  to  every  one  and  provided  much  de- 
light to  her  unsympathetic  companions. 

It  appeared  that  Enna  was  returning  home 
one  evening  from  a  concert  at  Carnegie  Hall, 
and  had  decided  to  walk,  although  it  was  rather 
late  for  a  young  woman  of  her  severe  standards 
to  be  promenading  alone.  Enna  walked  along 
unmolested  for  several  blocks,  looking  possible 
mashers  sternly  in  the  eye  in  a  way  to  dis- 
hearten the  most  aggressive  of  them.  She  was 
well  past  Sixty-sixth  Street  when  she  discovered 
that  one  man  was  following  her.  Inexpressibly 
annoyed,  she  kept  to  her  path  without  turning 
for  some  time,  though  she  was  quite  sure  he 
was  still  behind  her.  Once  she  turned  and  stared 
angrily,  hoping  to  discourage  him,  but  the  man 


WHITHER  161 

merely  returned  her  stare  and  looked  as  if  he 
were  about  to  speak  to  her. 

Enna  began  to  hurry  and,  to  add  to  her  dis- 
comfiture, she  realized  that  there  was  a  small  but 
insidious  hole  in  the  heel  of  her  stocking,  and 
any  one  behind  could  not  fail  to  notice  it.  She 
was  bursting  with  rage.  She  turned  up  Seventy- 
second  Street  and  cut  down  West  End  in  a  futile 
effort  to  get  rid  of  her  pursuer,  but  each  time  she 
turned  around  the  man  gave  her  a  bland  smile 
and  increased  her  anger. 

Enna  reached  Eighty-third  and  tore  up  the 
street  to  the  house.  The  little  colored  hallboy, 
who  also  ran  the  elevator,  was  so  slow  in  getting 
to  the  door  to  unlock  it  that  the  pursuer  had 
a  chance  to  catch  up  with  Enna.  As  she  rushed 
in  the  door,  he  calmly  walked  in,  too.  For  an 
instant  Enna's  head  spun  and  then  she  turned 
in  a  white  fury: 

"How  dare  you  follow  me  all  over  town,  you 
— you — masher!  Can't  a  decent  girl  go  out- 
side her  door  at  night  without  some  miserable 
tramp  like  you  taking  advantage  of  her  to  insult 
her?  Now,  you  turn  around  and  march,  or  I'll 
call  the  janitor!" 

She  whirled  into  the  elevator,  leaving  the  man 
staring  up  at  her  in  the  most  ludicrous  astonish- 
ment.   The  elevator  boy  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Didn't  you  know,  Miss,"  he  said,  "dat  dat 
man  is  de  janitor?" 

Naturally,  Enna  could  not  live  in  the  place 


162  WHITHER 

and  meet  the  janitor  fixing  the  electric  lights, 
tinkering  with  the  plumbing,  fixing  the  leaks  and 
so  on  every  day.  She  packed  up  her  things  and 
fled,  and  in  her  place  a  fat  little  teacher  of 
aesthetic  dancing  came  to  Mrs.  Home's,  and  told 
endless  anecdotes  of  her  forty  years  as  a  teacher, 
and  what  Mr.  Chalif  said  to  her,  and  what  Mr. 
Koslov  said  to  her,  and  how  complimentary 
Mr.  Fokine  had  been  over  her  work. 

"As  bad  as  Enna,"  Julie  grumbled  to  Zoe. 
"In  fact,  I'd  rather  have  Enna.  We  all  go  around 
looking  like  frumps  since  Enna  took  her  clothes 
away.  If  this  fat  terpsichore  had  some  decent 
clothes  it  might  not  be  so  bad." 

"Can't  you  just  picture  her  flitting  around  in 
a  couple  of  veils?"  giggled  Maisie,  sitting  on  the 
floor  and  hugging  her  knees. 

Julie  remained  disconsolate.  For  one  thing, 
Julie's  father,  like  Olive's,  had  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  question  the  wisdom  of  keeping  up  two 
households,  one  in  St.  Louis  and  one  in  New 
York.  He  had  written,  recommending  that  Julie 
plan  to  return  home  in  the  spring  for  good. 

"Everybody  goes  back  after  a  while,"  Maisie 
said,  confidently,  "and  the  reason  they  hate  it 
so  is  because  they're  dashing  artists  in  New 
York,  and  New  York  men  like  their  women 
sophisticated  and  well  past  the  teens.  Not  for 
marrying,  of  course,  but  to  step  out  with.  But 
back  home  everybody  thinks  they're  just  old 
maids,  and — well — maybe  they  are." 


WHITHER  163 

Zoe  saw  some  logic  in  this,  for  it  occurred  to 
her  that  even  she  was  considered  practically 
shelved  back  in  Albon.  That — at  twenty- three ! 
But  at  least  she  didn't  have  to  go  back  there, 
as  the  girls  did  who  were  dependent  on  their 
families.  Even  if  she  did  have  to  work  hard  and 
have  less  clothes  than  Julie  and  the  rest  of  these 
semi-artists,  she  was  at  least  independent. 

"I'm  sick  of  Mrs.  Home's  anyway,"  went  on 
Julie,  buffing  her  nails,  "I'm  going  to  go  and 
take  an  apartment  in  the  Village  as  soon  as  I 
can  land  a  New  York  engagement.  Going  down 
and  see  Brown's  first  thing  this  morning  and 
tell  'em  I'll  take  anything.    Chorus,  even." 

Zoe's  face  fell.  She  had  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  adoring,  obeying  and  marveling  at 
Julie  that  she  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  having 
her  leave.  As  for  leaving  Mrs.  Home's  herself 
— why,  Zoe  had  never  been  so  utterly  happy 
any  place  in  her  life. 

"Maybe  some  new  girls  will  come  here,"  she 
suggested,  hopefully. 

"New  girls!  Bah!"  Julie  sniffed,  "I  get 
tired  of  meeting  new  girls.  They're  just  the 
same  types  all  over  again.  Anyway  they  aren't 
human  enough  to  be  interesting.  You're  the 
only  human  person  in  the  whole  lot.  You  and 
Maisie.  And  Maisie,  here,  is  so  blamed  inde- 
pendent, even  if  she  does  have  a  little  interest  in 
other  people.  Can't  imagine  Maisie  weeping 
any  if  I  left,  can  you?    Maisie  would  say,  'By, 


164  WHITHER 

Julie.  Good  luck,  old  bean/  and  go  cheerily  on 
her  way.  Of  course  the  rest  wouldn't  even  wish 
me  good  luck." 

"You're  blue  today,"  commented  Zoe. 

Julie  flung  the  buffer  back  on  the  dresser  and 
looked  at  Zoe  discouragedly. 

"You  know  nobody  cares  what  becomes  of 
you,  here,"  she  said.  "It's  like  the  ocean.  While 
you're  floating,  it's  all  right,  but  once  you  start 
down  the  water  closes  right  over  your  head. 
There  isn't  any  hole  left  at  all.  I'm  tired  of 
New  York  and  everything." 

"You  might  try  Paris,"  suggested  Zoe,  prac- 
tically. "Perhaps  a  romantic  city  instead  of  a 
commercial  city  would  appeal  to  you  more." 

A  faint  spark  came  to  Julie's  blue  eyes. 

"What  could  I  do?"  she  said.  "Dad  wouldn't 
give  me  the  money.  Of  course  I  might  get  a 
model  job — I've  done  it  with  some  New  York 
branches  of  Paris  firms.  I  might — but  what's 
the  use?  Might  just  as  well  go  back  home  to 
Dad  and  Lucy." 

"You  should  have  married  Alphonse,"  Maisie 
said. 

"And  had  some  children,"  Zoe  suggested,  mis- 
chievously. 

"Don't  want  Alphonse's  babies,"  Julie  said, 
distastefully.  "I  don't  fancy  motherhood  as  a 
career  for  me,  anyway.  I  think  it's  greatly  over- 
advertised." 

"Maybe  it  is,"  agreed  Zoe,  thoughtfully.    "So 


WHITHER  165 

far  as  really  getting  the  most  from  life,  the  old 
maids  nowadays  seem  to  have  it  all  over  the 
mothers.  And  then  standards  are  so  much 
broader  that  girls  really  don't  have  to  get  mar- 
ried out  of  curiosity.  Take  Aunt  Jude,  for 
instance.  Fifty  or  sixty,  and  trotting  all  over 
the  world  as  happy  as  she  can  be.  Adventures 
in  Japan  or  Patagonia  or  Montmartre  or  Nice 
— and  all  sorts  of  love  affairs.  Stunning  looking, 
too." 

"Of  course,  though,  she  doesn't  have  any  one 
to  look  after  her  in  her  old  age,"  Maisie  said, 
ingenuously. 

"As  if  the  mothers  did!"  Zoe  retorted.  "Sent 
to  institutions — even  the  poorhouse — by  their 
dear  children,  or  done  out  of  their  property  by 
loving  sons.  Or,  at  best,  all  the  children  feel  is 
a  sort  of  sentimental  pity.  'Poor  old  Ma,'  they 
say,  and  then  fight  over  whose  place  it  is  to 
feed  her.  Daughter  can't  have  her  on  account 
of  mother  interfering  with  her  bridge  parties 
and  always  looking  such  a  frump.  Son  can't 
keep  her  on  account  of  his  wife.  And  certainly 
nobody  could  spare  her  money  to  live  on,  on 
account  of  the  high  cost  of  their  gasoline.  Poor 
old  mothers!  I'm  not  going  to  be  one.  I  feel 
sorry  for  them.    I'm  going  to  be  like  Aunt  Jude." 

"You've  come  to  the  right  place,"  said  Julie, 
feelingly.  "This  town  is  just  full  of  Aunt  Judes. 
I'm  getting  to  be  one  myself.  Only — see  here, 
Zoe,  maybe  these  joyful  old  maids  feel  un- 


166  WHITHER 

happier  down  in  their  hearts  than  the  mothers 
do.  Mothers  don't  realize  what  a  raw  deal 
they're  getting,  so  it  doesn't  bother  them.  May- 
be they  sit  in  the  poorhouse  and  think  what  a 
fine  thing  it  is  that  Johnny's  got  a  new  auto- 
mobile. And  trotting  around  and  having  adven- 
tures— well,  Zoe — it  must  get  so  damned 
monotonous!" 

Zoe  was  troubled.  It  was  so  hard  to  see  the 
truth  about  these  things.  It  was  true  that  the 
incipient  Aunt  Judes  at  Mrs.  Home's  were  a 
discontented  enough  crew,  even  though  super- 
ficially they  were  enjoying  life  to  the  full.  And 
the  mothers — well,  the  mothers  at  least  had  a 
philosophy. 

"Sure  you  don't  fancy  yourself  leading  a 
couple  of  towheaded  little  Cornells  around  Cen- 
tral Park?"  Julie  teased.  Cornell  had  begun 
to  loom  importantly  in  Zoe's  affairs. 

"No,"  said  Zoe,  shortly,  and  Julie  changed 
the  subject. 

"Wonder  how  much  it  costs  to  live  in  Paris," 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Zoe  had  been  to  the  theater  twice  with  Bill 
Cornell  and  to  the  Capitol  four  or  five  times. 
On  these  occasions  she  had  rushed  home  from 
the  office,  unable  to  eat  any  dinner,  sitting  in 
a  clammy  agony  of  anticipation  until  it  was  time 
to  get  dressed.  When  it  approached  eight 
o'clock,  the  usual  trysting  time,  she  sat  before 
her  mirror  fairly  nauseated  with  excitement. 
And  then  when  the  bell  rang  announcing  his 
presence  in  the  lower  reception  hall — ! 

They  would  take  the  bus  and  when  his  hand 
touched  hers  Zoe  always  turned  speechless  from 
the  sheer  thrill  of  it.  Yet,  oddly  enough,  she 
was  rather  ashamed  of  the  thrill  his  physical 
nearness  always  gave  her;  as  women  are  when 
they  find  themselves  responding  physically  to 
men  they  recognize  as  intellectually  or  socially 
their  inferiors.  Zoe  did  not  admit  that  Bill 
Cornell's  mind  was  not  as  good  as  hers,  yet 
her  reactions  indicated  that  something  within 
her,  something  subconscious,  recognized  an  in- 
equality. He  had  a  straight-thinking  brain, 
with  an  adequate  appreciation  of  books  and 
plays,  but  Zoe  felt  a  subtle  lack.  Perhaps  it  was 
understanding. 

She  tried  to  act  very  cool  toward  him  during 
office   hours    and,    to   disguise   her   partiality, 

167 


168  WHITHER 

talked  and  laughed  much  more  with  Allan 
Myers,  who  had  begun  to  be  lazily  interested  in 
her  and  occasionally  took  her  out  to  lunch.  She 
had  even  tried  to  pique  Bill  by  telling  him  how 
much  she  liked  Allan.  Bill's  complacent  reaction 
made  her  inwardly  hot.  She  hated  him  for  his 
egotistical  lack  of  jealousy.  He  didn't  care 
whether  she  liked  him  or  not!  She  wished  she 
could  preserve  the  fine  indifference  she  had  felt 
when  she  talked  with  Kane  that  day.  It  gave 
her  such  a  sense  of  power.  But  she  was  lost, 
now,  in  her  infatuation. 

If  Bill  did  not  appear  to  respond  to  her  ma- 
neuverings,  Allan  unexpectedly  did.  Zoe  was 
startled  to  find  him  staring  at  her  constantly,  his 
usually  bored,  dark  eyes  alight  with  a  faint 
gleam.  He  asked  her  occasionally  if  she  was 
doing  any  play-writing.  She  had  scarcely  ever 
thought  of  him  as  a  person ;  he  was  simply  a  foil 
for  Bill  Cornell.  He  was  good  looking  enough, 
except  that  his  mouth  had  a  sardonic  twist  and 
his  clothes  had  a  slouchy,  Village  air.  She  never 
remembered  what  she  talked  about  with  him, 
for  her  head  was  always  turned,  mentally,  to  see 
how  Cornell  was  taking  her  coquetry. 

One  day  Allan  amazed  her  by  proposing  to 
take  her  to  call  on  some  friends  in  the  Village. 
It  was  quite  a  step  from  their  casual  lunches, 
but  Zoe  accepted  at  once,  chiefly  because  she 
knew  Cornell  had  overheard  the  invitation. 

"He  hasn't  asked  to  see  me  for  ten  days,"  she 


WHITHER  169 

told  herself,  hot  with  the  stab  at  her  vanity, 
"and  I  know  he  took  Blanche  Clay  out  to  lunch 
last  Saturday.  I'm  going  to  be  just  as  indiffer- 
ent as  he  is!" 

"Don't  dress,  for  heaven's  sake,"  Allan  warned 
her.  "Lucille's  always  having  people  in  and  they 
always  go  just  as  is.  A  Piccadilly  collar  would 
spoil  the  whole  evening." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  wearing  one,"  Zoe 
assured  him,  hastily. 

"Well,  the  feminine  equivalent  of  one,"  Allan 
grinned.  "Supposing  we  dine  at  Mori's  and  then 
run  over  to  the  studio  afterward." 

Zoe  was  getting  interested  in  the  party  for  its 
own  sake,  instead  of  as  a  means  to  an  end.  She 
had  never  been  to  a  real  studio  party  in  Green- 
wich Village. 

"I  think  you'll  like  Lucille,"  Allan  went  on, 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "She's  an  artist,  at  the 
moment  engaged  in  designing  for  the  cloak  and 
suit  trade.  She  and  Dave  have  been  living 
together  for  years — in  the  modern  way,  you 
understand — and  she's  done  wonders  for  him. 
Simply  devoted  herself  to  the  business  of  mak- 
ing him  amount  to  something.  If  Dave  had  his 
way  he'd  be  puttering  around  in  his  old  base- 
ment, making  furniture  for  about  fifteen  dollars 
a  week,  thinking  he  was  a  great  success.  Lucille 
had  a  frightful  time  with  him." 

"They  sound  nice,"  Zoe  murmured  politely. 
She  was  not  sure  how  one  acted  among  people 


170  WHITHER 

who  disregarded  the  marriage  convention.  They 
must  be  terribly  in  love  to  throw  the  comfort 
of  tradition  to  the  winds.  Zoe  thought  it  might 
be  thrilling  to  see  a  man  and  woman  so  tremen- 
dously in  love  with  each  other — like  Paola  and 
Francesca,  or  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

At  night  as  she  was  in  the  file  room  making 
preparations  to  leave  the  office,  she  saw  Cornell 
lingering  at  her  desk.  She  hastily  put  on  a  little 
lip  rouge  and  sauntered  back  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  hello,"  she  said,  with  a  great  show  of 
unconcern,  "anything  you  wanted?" 

Cornell  ran  an  embarrassed  hand  through  his 
blond  hair. 

"Why — er — I  was  wondering  if  you'd  help  me 
out  tomorrow  on  that  Blue  Oven  booklet." 

Zoe  rejoiced  at  the  obviousness  of  his  purpose. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  She  began  to  lock 
the  drawers  of  her  desk,  ignoring  him.  It  was 
ridiculous  what  childish  games  people  in  love 
played.  Of  course  he  liked  her  and,  of  course, 
she  was  mad  about  him,  yet  here  they  were 
making  this  silly  pretense  of  indifference! 

Cornell  coughed. 

"Anything  on  for  tonight?" 

Zoe's  heart  jumped,  but  she  did  not  lift  her 
eyes  from  the  lock  she  was  struggling  with. 

"Studio  party  down  in  the  Village,"  she  said, 
offhand.  His  face  darkened  and  she  sensed  at 
once  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  Bertolotti 
episode. 


WHITHER  171 

"Wild  crowd  down  there,"  he  said,  hesitantly. 
It  was  a  triumph  to  make  such  a  self-satisfied 
man  as  Cornell  appear  ill  at  ease.    Zoe  gloated. 

"Oh,  not  very,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of 
having  been  in  much  wilder  crowds.  How  hard 
good  women  work  to  make  men  they  love 
think  them  bad  enough  to  be  interesting! 

"When  can  I  see  you?"  asked  Cornell  directly, 
his  face  a  little  red.    Zoe  yearned  for  him. 

"Next  week  sometime,"  she  said  bravely  and 
a  little  breathlessly.  She  put  out  her  hand, 
impulsively.  Somehow  she  wanted  to  touch  him. 
His  own  hand  closed  over  hers  so  swiftly  that 
she  gasped.  Cornell  felt  the  shock  of  that  con- 
tact, too.  It  was  queer  what  a  magnetic  cur- 
rent ran  between  these  two.  It  was  so  powerful 
that  Zoe  felt  almost  guilty  on  seeing  Allan  wait- 
ing at  the  door  for  her.  She  spoke  to  him  with 
hysterical  gayety  to  cover  her  confusion. 

"We  only  shook  hands,"  she  reminded  her- 
self, perplexedly,  "yet  I  feel  as  ashamed  as  if 
Allan  had  caught  us  in  each  other's  arms ! " 

The  studio  was  on  Bank  Street,  and  Lucille 
was  not  the  glamorous  Francesca  of  Zoe's 
imaginings,  but  a  short,  snappy-eyed,  dark 
person  who  was  most  unromantically  efficient. 
She  was  poking  the  fire  as  Zoe  and  Allan 
entered  the  big,  barren  basement  room,  and 
she  called  over  her  shoulder  for  them  to  sit 
down. 


172  WHITHER 

"Dave  went  over  to  Dariel's"  she  announced. 
"The  man  would  perish  if  Dave  didn't  take  over 
a  can  of  sardines  now  and  then.  You  know 
Dariel,  Allan,  don't  you?" 

She  took  in  Zoe  casually. 

"Who  doesn't  know  Dariel?"  Allan  replied, 
dropping  on  to  the  sofa.  "Funny  duck,  but  he 
is  the  real  thing,  all  right." 

"You're  a  writer,  Allan  says,"  Lucille  said  to 
Zoe,  without  interest. 

"Yes.  Only  I've  really  done  nothing  since  I 
came  to  the  city.  I  expect  to  get  busy  very  soon, 
though.  A  play,  I  think."  Zoe  felt  that  her 
presence  in  Village  circles  must  be  justified.  She 
determined  that  she  must  do  some  writing  soon, 
if  only  to  prove  to  people  that  she  could. 

Lucille  looked  frankly  bored.  She  lit  two  tall 
red  candles  on  the  mantelpiece,  adjusted  a  batik 
scarf  on  the  yellow-painted  table,  and  sat  down 
with  a  smothered  yawn  on  a  yellow  chair.  Zoe 
was  puzzled  by  her.  She  did  not  look  like  the 
sort  of  person  who  would  abandon  all  for  love, 
but  rather  like  one  who  had  a  very  definite 
purpose  from  which  even  love  could  not  swerve 
her. 

When  Dave  came  in  a  few  minutes  later,  Zoe 
was  even  more  disillusioned.  A  magnificent,  if 
base,  passion  between  two  glorious,  heroic  fig- 
ures thrilled  her  profoundly.  But  the  affair 
between  the  self-centered,  ordinary  little  de- 
signer   and    the    timid,    commonplace    David 


WHITHER  173 

offended  her  morals.  It  seemed  petty  and 
soiled. 

"Just  like  that  Paine  woman  in  Albon  who 
lived  with  the  actor,"  Zoe  thought.  "Not  a  grand 
love  affair  at  all,  but  a  sort  of  cheap  arrange- 
ment to  save  room  rent." 

With  David  came  two  or  three  others:  a 
pasty-faced,  pasty-haired  girl  in  a  paste-colored 
tweed  suit  and  a  white  cravat,  her  hair  shingled 
close  to  her  bumpy  head;  a  gaunt  young  man 
with  a  bald  head  and  a  close,  reddish  beard  which 
occasionally  parted  horizontally  and  revealed 
bad  teeth ;  a  sallow,  oily-haired  youth  who  spoke 
Iowa  idioms  with  a  strong  Harvard  accent. 
These,  Allan  whispered,  were  the  leaders  of 
Greenwich  Village  thought.  Zoe  felt  a  warm 
surge  of  excitement.  Here  she  was  face  to  face 
with  the  Young  Intellectuals  of  whom  every  one 
talked  nowadays.  She  found  herself  wishing 
that  she  had  read  more  of  the  modern  things 
since  she  had  come  to  New  York.  She'd  kept 
up  avidly  with  everything  when  she'd  been  so 
far  away  from  the  city.  She  really  should  be 
one  of  this  group,  and  yet  in  another  way  she 
belonged  at  Mrs.  Home's.  She  wished  she 
could  scintillate  and  show  that  she,  too,  was 
really  very  clever. 

Disappointedly  enough,  there  was  no  need  for 
her  to  scintillate.  The  bearded  young  man 
talked  about  his  room  rent,  the  oily-haired 
youth  told  how  to  cook  slightly  spoiled  meat  so 


174  WHITHER 

that  it  didn't  taste,  the  pasty-faced  girl  boasted 
of  how  many  words  she  wrote  a  day. 

"Yes,  but  Aldah — what  words! "  David  mildly 
retorted. 

Zoe  felt  herself  an  onlooker  and  was  so  inter- 
ested in  this  new  phase  of  New  York  life  that 
she  said  very  little.  She  was  waiting  for  the 
brilliant  utterances  that  such  clever  people  were 
bound  to  make.  Allan  watched  her  curiously. 
She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  on  which  he 
lounged,  a  little  apart  from  the  group  about 
the  fireplace,  and  partly  ignored  by  them. 
Lucille,  in  the  center  of  the  group,  talked  con- 
stantly and  with  a  devotion  to  die  subject  of 
David  that  seemed,  at  first,  charming. 

"He's  finding  himself,  boys,"  she  was  saying, 
her  arm  flung  affectionately  over  Dave's  shoul- 
der. "If  we  could  only  find  something  now  that 
he  was  really  suited  for!  He's  not  going  to  be 
a  basement  carpenter  all  his  life,  people!  He 
was  destined  for  big  things." 

"Lucille's  simply  making  Dave,"  Allan  whis- 
pered to  Zoe.  "He  probably  would  have  spent 
all  his  life  as  a  carpenter  if  Lucille  hadn't  just 
taken  hold  of  him." 

"He  doesn't  look  as  if  he  wanted  to  be  made," 
Zoe  remarked,  a  little  maliciously. 

Allan,  after  a  shocked  pause,  choked  back  a 
laugh. 

"That  never  struck  me,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  you've  hit  it.     He  was  having  a  glorious 


WHITHER  175 

time  tinkering  with  his  old  boards,  hoping  for 
nothing  better  than  to  be  a  good  carpenter. 
He  never  even  knew  it  was  menial  work  until 
Lucille  explained  it  to  him.  He  thought  he  was 
a  big  success,  I  suppose,  because  he  was  getting 
a  few  dollars  for  doing  something  he  liked !  But 
Lucille  came  along  and  told  him  he  was  a  failure 
and  she's  going  to  make  an  interior  decorator 
out  of  him.  She  makes  more  with  her  design- 
ing than  he  does  so,  of  course,  she  has  the  right 
of  way." 

"It's  just  like  marriage,  isn't  it?"  Zoe  reflected. 
"Sort  of  prosaic  and  stupid  with  the  wife  trying 
to  make  the  husband  stop  doing  the  thing — 
whatever  it  is — that  he  likes  best." 

"Oh,  if  you're  out  looking  for  romance,"  Allan 
said  languidly,  his  dark  eyes  appraising  her, 
"you  should  avoid  any  arrangement  of  this  sort. 
It's  always  commercial  or  sordid.  One  or  the 
other  is  getting  some  material  benefit  from  it, 
you  can  be  sure.  It  has  all  the  disadvantages 
of  marriage  and  practically  none  of  the  advan- 
tages. However,  it's  quite  customary  down 
here." 

"Well "    Zoe  forgot  what  she  intended  to 

say,  for  she  looked  up  and  encountered  the 
haggard,  dark-bearded  face  of  the  man  they 
called  Dariel.  He  had  come  silently  into  the 
room  without  knocking  and,  after  an  aloof  sur- 
vey of  the  group  about  the  fireplace,  came 
straight  to  Zoe.    He  stood  before  her  somberly 


176  WHITHER 

until  Allan,  with  a  trace  of  irritation,  introduced 
him. 

"You  are  a  writer,  I  know,"  he  said,  sitting 
down  beside  her.    "What  do  you  write?" 

Zoe  was  confused.  It  seemed  silly  to  call  her- 
self a  writer  on  the  strength  of  a  few  things  that 
had  never  been  published  anyway.  She  felt 
somehow  humble  before  this  wan,  threadbare 
Dariel. 

"Things,"  she  said,  vaguely,  conscious  of 
Allan's  amusement.  "I've  been  in  an  office 
several  months." 

"Then  you  write  at  night,"  said  Dariel,  inter- 
rogatively. He  seemed  unaware  of  the  existence 
of  the  others.  Occasionally  Lucille  flung  a  re- 
mark to  him,  but  he  paid  absolutely  no  heed. 
He  saw  only  Zoe,  and  Zoe  leaned  half-hypnotized 
toward  the  young  vagabond  writer. 

"No — I — I  haven't  written  much.  I  want  to 
write  later  on,  though.  I  want  to  be  a  great 
playwright." 

"The  way  to  be  a  great  playwright  is  to  write 
plays,"  Dariel  said  solemnly. 

"There's  your  secret,  Zoe,"  Allan  remarked, 
dryly. 

"You  should  not  waste  your  time  in  an  office. 
You  should  write  all  day." 

"I  daren't  risk  it,"  Zoe  said,  frightened  at  the 
very  idea.  "Give  up  my  job,  you  mean?  But  I 
have  to  eat  and  have  clothes.  I  wouldn't  dare 
— oh,  I  wouldn't  dare  let  all  my  security  go  on  a 


WHITHER  177 

chance  of  succeeding  as  a  writer.  It's  such  a 
chance." 

"You  wouldn't  sacrifice  security  for  immor- 
tality?" Dariel  stared  at  her.  Zoe  shrank  away 
from  his  rebuking  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  great  novelist  and  so  I 
write  novels  from  dawn  to  midnight/'  went  on 
Dariel  in  his  hollow,  dreary  voice.  "I  have 
written  seven." 

"How  long  did  it  take?"  asked  Zoe,  timidly. 

"Eight  years,"  answered  Dariel,  simply.  "I 
have  worked  very  hard.  One  sees  no  one  except 
at  the  Kitchen  occasionally  or  when  one  meets 
some  one  at  the  grocer's  getting  crackers  and 
cheese." 

"Dariel  lives  on  that  fare — that  and  cold 
cereal,"  Allan  announced,  stretched  out  behind 
them.  "He  has  food  reduced  to  its  proper  place. 
You  should  have  him  explain,  Zoe.  Shredded 
wheat  and  water  is  his  great  dish.  He  found  he 
was  looking  forward  from  one  meal  to  another 
when  he  used  cream  and  sugar  on  it,  and  his 
appetite  interfered  with  his  work.  So  he  elimi- 
nated the  cream  and  sugar  and  now  he  eats 
only  from  necessity  and  not  from  desire.  Try  it 
out,  Zoe.  Perhaps  you  could  write  a  few  plays, 
then." 

"How  can  you  work  when  you  don't  eat 
properly?"  Zoe  asked. 

"It  isn't  work,"  Dariel  frowned.  "It's — it's 
all  I  can  do.    If  I  feel  merry  I  write  a  gay  chapter 


178  WHITHER 

for  a  spree;  if  I  feel  unhappy  I  console  myself 
by  writing  a  sad  word  symphony." 

"He  never  wastes  a  minute,  Zoe,"  Allan  broke 
in,  idly.    "The  man  has  a  destiny  to  live  up  to." 

"I  have  a  destiny,"  Dariel  repeated  with 
dignity. 

Zoe  was  awestruck  by  his  colossal  sincerity. 
His  somber,  dreamy  face  made  her  catch  her 
breath  with  unwilling  reverence.  Lucille  and 
the  others  might  be  posers  but  this  man  was 
real.  Zoe  felt  that  he  was  a  sort  of  priest  of  art. 
She  was  ashamed  of  having  represented  herself 
as  a  writer.  She,  too,  had  dreamed  of  having  a 
destiny,  but  she  had  seen  herself  in  a  brocaded 
evening  cloak  coming  out  between  acts  to  accept 
the  stormy  applause  at  the  premiere  of  her  first 
play.  She  had  not  seen  herself  living  on  crackers 
for  eight  years  in  a  dirty  Village  garret.  Per- 
haps that's  what  one  ought  to  do — work  and 
sacrifice  for  work  if  one  wanted  to  become  a 
great  artist.  Zoe  shuddered,  appalled  at  the 
picture  of  a  gas-lit,  cold  room,  herself  in  worn 
clothes — cotton  stockings,  too! — working,  work- 
ing at  her  desk  from  daybreak  to  night  every 
day  for  years — years — years.  The  whole  world 
shut  out — all  life  and  warmth  and  kisses  shut 
out,  and  only  herself,  Zoe  Bourne,  shabby,  old, 
in  a  dreary  little  room  alone  with  Fame! 

"Oh!"  she  gasped. 

"You  are  not  an  artist.  You  are  only  a  bright 
flower,"  Dariel  told  her,  gravely,  "swaying  and 


WHITHER  179 

scarlet  in  a  wind.  If  life  were  not  so  short  and 
time  so  precious  I  should  fall  in  love  with  you." 

He  got  up  abruptly  and  walked  out  of  the 
room.  Zoe,  released  from  the  awful  spell  of  his 
presence,  turned,  with  a  little  sigh,  to  Allan. 

"Scared  you,  didn't  he?"  Allan  asked,  softly. 
Zoe  nodded,  mutely,  her  eyes  filled  with  quick 
tears.  Lucille  was  holding  forth  in  the  center  of 
the  room  and  the  pasty-faced  girl  was  lighting 
the  samovar.    Zoe  saw  them  blindly. 

"You  ought  to  live  down  here,  you  know," 
Allan  said  in  a  low  voice.  He  pulled  her  head 
down  toward  his.  She  felt  his  lips  brushing 
against  her  smooth,  brown  cheek  and,  for  some 
unaccountable  impulse,  turned  her  head  swiftly 
and  met  his  lips. 

"Adorable,"  he  whispered.  He  sat  up  and 
slid  an  arm  around  her  shoulders.  Zoe  was 
dazedly  conscious  of  it  but  she  did  not  stir.  This 
— this  was  Life.  She  didn't  want  to  be  in  a 
lonely  little  attic,  recording  Life.  She  wanted 
to  be  a  part  of  Life ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Saturday  noons  Zoe  always  went  to  lunch 
with  Maisie.  They  usually  went  to  Olive's  tea 
room  or  to  the  Yates'  restaurant,  and  thence  to 
a  matinee.  But  one  Saturday  Maisie  pointed 
reproachfully  to  Mr.  Bergman's  office  and  dole- 
fully whispered  that  he  had  commanded  her  to 
stay  that  Saturday  until  two  and  help  him  go 
through  some  old  records. 

"  'Course  I'll  get  extra  pay,"  she  said,  "but  it 
just  spoils  the  whole  afternoon.  Can't  go  to 
a  lunch  or  matinee  or  anything,  because  you 
know  how  he  is.  If  he  says  two  he  means  three 
o'clock.    Darn!" 

It  was  agreed  that  their  holiday  together 
would  have  to  be  foregone  and  Zoe  went  out 
alone.  For  the  second  time  in  history,  Kane  and 
Cornell  went  down  the  elevator  with  her.  Some- 
what to  her  chagrin — for  she  did  want  to  talk 
to  Bill — Kane  engaged  her  in  conversation  about 
some  pamphlet  she  had  just  completed,  and  when 
the  elevator  reached  the  ground  floor  he  asked: 

"Going  up  on  the  bus?  So  am  I,"  and  nodded 
to  Cornell  absently.  Bill  said  good-by  curtly 
and  started  off  toward  Fourth  Avenue.  Zoe 
walked  with  Kane  toward  the  bus.  After  all 
she  was  growing  very  fond  of  Kane,  even  if  he 
had  not  the  vigorous,  healthy  charm  of  Bill  Cor- 

180 


WHITHER  181 

nell.  For  one  thing  she  liked  his  keen,  amused 
eyes  and  the  delightful  way  he  had  of  making  her 
talk  about  herself,  making  her  feel  that  every- 
thing she  said  and  did  was  oh — tremendously 
clever. 

She  wondered  idly  if  Mrs.  Kane  was  pretty. 
Where  was  the  woman,  anyway?  She  was 
thinking  in  a  disjointed  way  about  Mrs.  Kane 
and  Maisie  and  Bill  Cornell — was  he  going  to 
lunch  with  some  girl  when  he  hurried  away  like 
that — even  while  she  made  fairly  intelligent 
responses  to  Kane.  They  climbed  on  top  of  the 
bus  and  Zoe  rushed  for  the  front  seat. 

"My  favorite  seat,"  she  exclaimed,  half  apolo- 
getically. "Do  you  ever  sit  in  front  and  sort  of 
squint  your  eyes  so  that  all  you  can  see  of  the 
other  busses  as  they  pass  is  the  top  deck?  You 
see  it  rolling  along,  not  in  relation  to  the  people 
on  the  sidewalk  or  inside  the  bus  at  all,  but  in 
relation  to  the  sky.    It's  like  being  on  a  ship." 

"I  never  played  that  game,"  Kane  said,  and 
added,  quizzically,  "Are  you  in  the  habit  of 
ignoring  the  foundations  of  things  and  seeing 
them  only  in  relation  to  the  sky?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  Zoe  answered,  not  at  all  cer- 
tain what  he  meant.  "Anyway  it  just  depends 
on  your  point  of  view  which  is  really  their 
foundation,  the  earth  or  the  sky." 

She  decided,  suddenly,  to  ask  him  the  thing 
that  had  troubled  her  ever  since  the  night  at 
Lucille's.    He  was  a  writer.    He  would  know. 


182  WHITHER 

"Do  you  think,"  she  began,  "that  a  person 
who  wants  to  be  a  writer  ought  to  do  anything 
but  write,  even  if  she  starves?" 

Kane  considered. 

"Debatable  point,"  he  said.  "Starvation,  in 
the  case  of  many  poets  I  know,  is  just  a  pretty 
way  of  saying  one  lives  on  one's  friends.  If 
your  art  doesn't  suffer  by  your  loss  of  self- 
respect,  then  by  all  means  give  up  your  regular 
job  and  write.  Nobody  ever  really  starves  at 
it,  anyway.  Somebody  always  takes  pity  on 
you." 

Zoe  said  nothing  further,  but  she  felt  com- 
forted. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Jonas  Lie  exhibition?" 
Kane  asked,  presently.  "I  thought  I'd  go  up 
now  and  look  around.    Lie's  a  favorite  of  mine." 

Who  was  Jonas  Lie,  Zoe  wondered.  An  artist, 
of  course.  Oh,  why  was  she  so  stupid  about 
things  she  yearned  to  know?  She  would  know! 
She  would !    Mr.  Kane  would  teach  her. 

"I'm  afraid  I  know  very  little  about  pictures," 
she  said  to  him,  wistfully. 

Kane's  face  fell. 

"Why,  Miss  Bourne,  I'm — do  you  know  I'm 
disappointed?  Don't  you,"  his  eyes  twinkled, 
"don't  you  even  make  the  gesture?" 

"I  don't  even  know  enough  to  make  the 
gesture,"  said  Zoe,  humbly. 

"Well,  that  is  easily  remedied,"  Kane 
answered.     "Three,  four,  perhaps  five  exhibi- 


WHITHER  183 

tions,  and  you'll  know  how.  Then  you  will  learn 
to  stand  two  yards  back  from  the  picture — then 
walk  up  swiftly  to  it  and  make  a  great  show  of 
studying  the  detail.  Then,  'Ah,  palette  knife!' 
you  will  say,  and  step  on  to  the  next." 

Zoe  smiled. 

"I  want  to  know  so  many  things  and  I  fumble 
around,  not  knowing  where  to  begin,"  she  said, 
slowly. 

"Good.  We'll  begin  with  Jonas  Lie,"  Kane 
said,  and  added,  wryly,  "Trust  a  man  to  begin 
by  teaching  you  what  he  loves  best." 

"I  think  I  would  like  it  best,  too,"  Zoe  said, 
shyly.  Kane's  face  lit  up  marvelously.  They 
exchanged  a  look  of  warm,  eager  understanding. 

"Here  we  are."  Kane  pushed  the  bell  and  they 
alighted  from  the  bus  before  an  art  gallery  in 
the  lower  Fifties.  They  entered  a  quiet,  velvet- 
draped  room,  hung  with  wintry  blue  marine 
paintings.  Zoe  studied  them  intently.  Then  she 
gave  an  involuntary  shudder. 

"His  ice-bound  rivers  are  too  real  to  be  com- 
fortable," she  said,  and  then  looked  at  one  with 
a  growing  pleasure  in  its  crisp  color  and  bold 
lines. 

"You're  getting  on,"  Kane  smiled  at  her.  He 
seemed  to  glow  and  grow  young  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  gallery  as  some  men  do  in  the 
atmosphere  of  their  smoke-fogged  clubs.  "It's 
that  chilly  blue  that  gets  you.  There  is  another 
man,  a  Frenchman,  who,  when  he's  in  the  mood, 


184  WHITHER 

can  paint  winter  winds  as  sharp  as  Lie's.  Char- 
reton  is  his  name.  You  must  see  some  of  his 
things." 

"I'd  love  to,"  Zoe  breathed.  She  followed 
him  from  picture  to  picture,  comparing  their 
responses  to  certain  effects.  Then  they  sat  on 
the  cushioned  divan  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  talked  until  Kane  glanced  at  his  watch  and 
jumped  up  contritely. 

"You  poor  child!  Three  o'clock  and  you 
haven't  had  a  bit  of  lunch." 

"I  had  forgotten  about  eating,"  Zoe  inter- 
rupted, truthfully. 

Kane  led  her  out  of  the  gallery,  berating 
himself  for  his  carelessness. 

"Shall  we  go  into  one  of  these  creamed- 
chicken-and-toast  places  around  here?"  he 
asked. 

"I'm  quite  hungry,"  Zoe  equivocated. 

Kane  chuckled. 

"Which  means  the  lady  wants  a  steak  and 
not  any  tea-room  fare.  I  know  just  the  place 
for  hungry  people." 

He  took  her  to  a  German  restaurant  on  Forty- 
fourth  Street,  where  an  order  of  steak  meant  at 
least  a  fourth  of  an  ox,  so  it  seemed  to  Zoe, 
regarding  her  plate  with  alarm.  There  were 
little  German  mottoes  about  the  walls,  and  illus- 
trations of  Grimm's  fairy  tales  painted  on  the 
ceiling  and  walls. 

"You  can  always  tell  which  are  the  real  eating 


WHITHER  185 

places,"  Zoe  observed,  glancing  around  her, 
"because  they're  full  of  men — usually  older 
men." 

"A  man  seldom  appreciates  the  ah — gastro- 
nomic nuances  until  he's  past  thirty,"  admitted 
Kane. 

Zoe  was  completely  happy  that  afternoon  with 
Kane.  She  had  a  strange,  glowing  feeling  about 
him — nothing  thrilling  or  ecstatic,  but  rich  and 
deep.  She  was  grateful — as  a  girl  is  to  her  first 
lover  even  after  she  has  outgrown  the  romance 
and  sees  him  as  a  rather  crude  figure — grateful 
because  he  had  broadened  her  capacity  for  happi- 
ness. Kane  had  opened  up  to  Zoe  a  new  and 
beautiful  world,  a  world  she  had  looked  upon 
as  something  quite  outside  her  reach  or  desire. 

"You  must  know  etchings,  too,"  Kane  told 
her,  eagerly.  "They  are  easy  to  love.  Benson 
and  Troy  Kinney  to  begin  with,  because  they're 
easiest  to  get  acquainted  with.  Whistler,  be- 
cause he  is  the  king  of  them  all,  and  after  that 
the  rest:  Pennell,  Zorn,  and  Hassam,  and  Bone 
and  this  new  bird  man,  Roland  Clark.  We 
must  go  to  that  exhibition  at  the  Anderson 
Galleries.  They  will  have  all  the  good  people. 
And  then " 

An  idea  seemed  to  strike  him,  for  he  looked  at 
Zoe  speculatively. 

"There's  another  place  I  want  to  take  you. 
I  found  some  beautiful  old  prints  down  at  a 
second-hand  book  shop  on  Union  Square.    The 


186  WHITHER 

man  who  owns  the  place  is  a  hundred  years  old, 
they  say,  but,  unfortunately  for  us  poor  people, 
he  still  knows  perfectly  well  when  he  has  a 
treasure." 

"You  want  to  buy  them?"  inquired  Zoe. 

"Lord,  no!  Part  of  the  joy  is  in  not  being 
able  to  own  them.  There  is  the  glamour  of  the 
unattainable  about  them." 

"And  one  can  always  visit  them,"  Zoe  nodded 
comprehendingly. 

"It's  queer,"  Kane  pondered.  "The  few 
things  I  own,  even  though  I  love  them  dearly, 
do  not  give  me  nearly  the  delight  that  the  things 
I  can't  own  do.  I'm  rather  glad  I  haven't  money 
enough  to  buy  certain  things." 

"Owning  them  cheapens  them,"  put  in  Zoe, 
"like  owning  the  Venus  de  Milo  or  a-a-a — prin- 
cess." 

"A  princess  is  a  different  matter  entirely,  my 
dear."    Kane's  eyes  twinkled  back  at  her. 

"Look.  It's  getting  dark,"  she  exclaimed,  dis- 
appointedly, as  they  emerged  from  the  restau- 
rant into  the  twilight. 

Kane  sighed. 

"You  have  to  meet  some  one,  then." 

Zoe  shook  her  head. 

"No.    I  want  to  go  down  to  that  book  shop." 

Kane  was  overjoyed.  He  hurried  her  to  a 
Washington  Square  bus  and  they  rode  down, 
Kane  anxious  lest  the  shop  should  close  before 
they  could  reach  it.    However,  they  found  that 


WHITHER  187 

there  was  an  hour  left  till  closing  time,  when 
they  came  to  the  little  nest  of  book  shops  around 
Union  Square. 

The  owner  of  Kane's  particular  shop  remem- 
bered him,  although  he  looked  at  them  blackly 
as  they  entered  and  continued  to  sit  by  his  stove 
smoking  a  vile-smelling  pipe,  and  eying  his 
would-be  customers  with  such  ferocity  that  Zoe 
wondered  they  weren't  frightened  away.  Each 
book  she  picked  up  from  the  chaotic,  dusty  stacks 
around  her  brought  a  resentful  glare  from  the 
proprietor. 

"He  thinks  nobody  appreciates  their  value  like 
he  does,"  Kane  whispered.  "He's  thinking — 
'Canaille/'" 

From  above,  a  dim  light  shone  over  the  tiny, 
dust-shadowed  room,  leaving  a  dozen  little  book- 
partitioned  nooks  in  utter  darkness,  hiding  who 
knew  what  mysterious  literary  treasures?  On 
one  table  were  a  group  of  yellow-paged,  ancient 
books  of  mission  lands,  histories  of  towns  nobody 
ever  heard  of,  and  poetry  by  Victorian  parsons 
— all  marked  "10c."  On  another  table  were 
the  twenty-five-cent  books.  These  were  war 
fiction  and  essays  by  overnight  authors,  novels 
by  Myrtle  Reid,  travel  stories  of  fifty  years 
ago,  and  here  Zoe  found  three  Anthony  Trollope 
books  she  wanted  to  keep.  Kane  had  asked  to 
see  the  prints  and  the  old  man,  his  iron-gray 
beard  bristling  with  indignation,  had  finally  pro- 
duced a  worn  old  book,  binding  forty  or  fifty 


188  WHITHER 

reproductions  of  etchings  by  Bauer,  Meryon, 
Toulouse-Lautres,  Rembrandt,  Brangwyn,  Le 
Gros,  and  Daumier.  There  were  two  originals 
which  the  artist  had  discarded  and  crossed  the 
drawing  with  three  or  four  lines. 

Zoe  pored  over  them  thirstily.  This — this 
was  Life.  This  was  Beauty.  Here  in  this  little 
musty  room  with  Kane  and  the  old  bookseller. 
She  would  never  have  found  out  if  Kane  had  not 
guided  her.  How  one  fumbled  about  to  find 
something  that  was  right  before  one's  eyes!  It 
was  Julie  and  the  rest  who  had  tried  to  put  her 
off  the  track. 

"Seventy  dollars  for  that  book,"  the  old  man's 
voice  broke  in  grimly. 

"I'll  give  you  forty,"  said  Kane,  but  the  old 
man  grunted  angrily  and  went  back  to  his  seat 
by  the  fire.  He  took  the  book  with  him  and  put 
it  back  on  the  shelf  with  an  ominous,  threatening 
air,  as  if  he  expected  them  to  try  to  steal  it. 

"Of  course  he  would  be  killed  with  disappoint- 
ment if  some  one  actually  did  offer  him  seventy," 
Kane  murmured  to  Zoe.  "He  wouldn't  sell  it 
for  a  million,  but  he  pretends  to  put  a  price  on  it 
for  the  hateful  pleasure  of  seeing  poor  people 
desire  it.  He's  an  old  demon.  I'm  very  fond  of 
him,  nevertheless." 

"I  liked  the  Brangwyns  best,"  Zoe  said. 
"Should  I  have  liked  the  Rembrandts  best?" 

"No,"  said  Kane,  "no  one  should  like  best  the 
thing  he  ought  to  like  best." 


WHITHER  189 

Zoe's  eye  ran  down  a  stack  of  old  books  in  the 
corner.  Here  was  "Tristram  Shandy,"  "Harry 
Lorrequer,"  which  Kane  assured  her  was  scream- 
ingly funny,  a  "Story  of  Mary  Maclane,"  an 
interesting  looking  "Trimalchio's  Dinner,"  which 
Kane  said  was  an  entertaining  translation  of 
Petronius. 

"I  don't  suppose  there's  a  single  book  that 
doesn't  eventually  land  here  with  a  5c  tag  to  it," 
mourned  Zoe. 

"Still,  the  person  who  finally  does  get  it  for 
his  five  cents,"  consoled  Kane,  "probably  loves 
it  more  than  the  person  who  originally  bought 
it." 

Zoe  was  fingering  a  1735  edition  of  La 
Bruyere  and  caught  a  sentence,  "There's  some- 
thing more  than  wit  required  to  make  an 
author." 

"What  more  than  wit  is  required  to  make  an 
author?"  she  demanded. 

Kane  shrugged  humorously. 

"Some  say  a  seat  at  the  Algonquin.  Others  a 
friend  in  the  publishing  business.  However,  it 
is  generally  admitted  that  an  ability  to  write 
more  or  less  English  does  enter  into  the  thing  to 
a  small  extent." 

The  sentence  stuck  in  her  mind,  trouble- 
somely,  even  when  Kane  pointed  out  another 
comment,  "We  must  laugh  before  we  are  happy, 
or  else  we  may  die  before  we  ever  laugh  at 
all." 


190  WHITHER 

"That's  such  wisdom  that  I  must  get  it  for 
you,"  declared  Kane,  and  insisted  on  purchasing 
the  book  at  once  and  presenting  her  with  it. 

It  was  heavenly  to  win  back  her  old  enjoyment 
of  books,  something  Zoe  had  found  so  hard  to 
keep  in  the  mad  whirl  of  New  York.  She  clung 
to  the  feeling  now  as  something  precious  re- 
turned to  her.  She  was  grateful  to  Kane.  He 
had  saved  her — she  didn't  know  what  from,  but 
he  had  saved  her. 

After  a  while  the  old  man  called  to  them  that 
he  was  shutting  up  shop.  Kane  drew  a  deep 
breath  when  they  got  outside  and  smiled  down 
at  Zoe.  She  knew  it  was  a  smile  of  complete 
approval  and  she  glowed  back  at  him.  She  felt 
that  she  had  found  a  true  friend. 

They  crossed  through  the  park,  where  already 
the  shuffling,  stooped,  silent  figures  who  seem  to 
dwell  in  Union  Square,  had  begun  to  fill  the 
benches.  Zoe  met  the  sodden  gaze  of  a  man, 
slumped  on  a  bench,  and  she  involuntarily  took 
Kane's  arm.    These  failures  frightened  her. 

"Let's  hurry,"  she  said,  nervously,  "I  want  to 
get  home." 

They  reached  Fifth  Avenue  and  Zoe  got  on 
the  bus  alone,  for  Kane  was  staying  down  town. 

"I've  liked  it  so  much,"  she  said,  warmly,  as 
they  parted. 

"It's  been  a  beautiful  day,"  Kane  said,  a  little 
wistfully,  "beautiful." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

On  the  Monday  following  her  expedition  with 
Kane,  Zoe  received  a  summons  to  appear  in 
Mr.  Bergman's  office.  Somewhat  mystified,  she 
adjusted  her  organdie  collar,  powdered  her  nose 
and  went  timidly  into  the  great  man's  sanctuary. 
Smug  and  dapper  in  his  new  pepper-and-salt 
suit,  Mr.  Bergman  frowned  prodigiously  at  Zoe's 
tremulous  greeting. 

"Just  a  word  of  warning,  Miss  Bourne — 
merely  a  word  of  warning." 

Warning?  Zoe  sat  down  fearfully,  her  eyes 
wide.  Mr.  Bergman  saw,  not  without  a  pleas- 
ant sensation  of  power,  that  the  girl  was  afraid 
of  him. 

"Nothing  very  serious,"  he  pursued,  "yet  im- 
portant enough  for  me  to  bring  it  to  your  atten- 
tion. It  concerns  a  little  matter  of  propriety. 
The  truth  is  this,  Miss  Bourne:  on  Saturday 
last,  an  important  client  of  ours  and  myself  had 
the  embarrassing  opportunity  of  seeing  you  on 
a  side  street  arm  in  arm  with  Christopher 
Kane." 

"Yes?"  asked  Zoe,  wonderingly. 

"Mr.  Kane,"  said  Mr.  Bergman,  impressively, 
"is  a  married  man,  as  the  client  happened  to 
know.  The  incident,  from  a  business  point  of 
view,  looked  bad.    It  placed  me  in  the  position 

191 


192  WHITHER 

of  a  man  fostering  unethical  relations  between 
his  employees.  It  made  the  firm  appear  cheap 
in  the  eyes  of  the  client,  who  happened  to  be 
Mr.  Voorhees." 

Zoe  was  stunned  into  silence.  She  wanted  to 
ask  why  the  client  had  not  attributed  their  being 
together  to  business  reasons,  but  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  speak. 

"A  very  awkward  situation,"  went  on  Berg- 
man, blandly.  "It  being  late  Saturday  afternoon, 
there  was  no  business  justification  for  your — 
ahem — proximity.  And  Kane  had  your  arm  and 
was  looking  at  you  with — er — quite  unmistak- 
able fervor." 

Zoe  got  to  her  feet  unsteadily. 

"There's  no  truth  in  what  you  thought,  of 
course,"  she  said,  thickly,  trying  to  appear  calm, 
"but  I  can  leave  at  once  to  save  you  any  further 
embarrassment." 

Bergman  raised  a  startled  hand. 

"Tut-tut — tut,  my  dear  girl.  We  are  very 
well  pleased  with  your  work.  Mr.  Kane  left  for 
Chicago  today,  too,  so  I'm  sure  of  your  dis- 
cretion for  the  next  few  weeks.  Aside  from 
this  little  episode — inconsequential,  perhaps — " 

"I  couldn't  think  of  staying,"  Zoe  said,  hot 
and  ashamed,  "I  shall  leave  at  once." 

Bergman  was  irritated. 

"I  repeat,  I  did  not  mean  to  dismiss  you." 

"But  I'm  resigning,"  Zoe  said,  evenly,  "I  am 
going  right  away." 


WHITHER  193 

"No,  Miss  Bourne,  don't  be  silly,"  Bergman 
was  exasperated,  "I  want  you  to  stay.  In  fact, 
we  were  thinking  of  making  things  much  more 
worth  your  while,  once  you  understood  this  little 
point  of  etiquette  I  referred  to." 

"I'm  going,"  insisted  Zoe,  "good-by." 

She  bolted  from  the  room  and,  burning  with 
the  insult,  hurried  to  collect  her  belongings.  She 
left  her  half-finished  work  in  a  wire  basket  on 
her  desk.  Allan  was  the  only  one  in  the  room 
and  he  raised  inquiring  brows  as  she  hurried 
past.  Zoe,  summoning  a  smile,  shook  her  head 
silently  at  him.  She  would  never  dream  of  tell- 
ing any  one  the  shameful  incident.  Cornell — 
she  was  positive  he  would  believe  the  worst.  A 
little  pang  shot  through  her,  as  she  waited  for 
the  elevator.  Now  she  might  never  see  him 
again,  unless  he  took  the  initiative  and  looked 
her  up  at  Mrs.  Home's. 

Well,  her  advertising  career  was  over  at  any 
rate.  She  experienced  a  surprised  satisfaction 
at  the  high-handed  way  she  had  managed  it. 
She  had  never  dreamed  of  herself  as  such  a 
heady,  hot-blooded  person.  She  had  thrown  over 
a  perfectly  good  job  because  of  an  insult,  just 
the  way  girls  do  in  books.  It  was  rather  gratify- 
ing. But  now  what  was  going  to  happen  to  her? 
She  only  had  a  few  dollars  left  from  last  week's 
salary.  Julie  and  Maisie  would  say  she  had 
been  frightfully  reckless.  And  she  wouldn't 
dare  mention  it  to  Fania  or  Margot,  or  the  rest 


194  WHITHER 

of  the  girls.  They  would  certainly  think  there 
was  something  more  in  it.  She  would  let  it  be 
known,  in  an  offhand  way,  that  she  had  quar- 
reled with  Mr.  Bergman  over  some  business 
detail. 

After  she  got  home,  the  impulse  came  to  Zoe 
to  write  Kane  and  tell  him  about  it,  but  she 
checked  it.  He  would  commend  her  step,  she 
was  sure,  but  she  hardly  dared  think  of  him 
after  this  morning. 

Maisie  came  scurrying  in  to  see  her  before 
dinner.  Her  small  freckled  face  was  charged 
with  excitement. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  making 
a  past?"  she  said,  reproachfully.  "What  good  is 
friendship  if  your  friend  holds  out  on  you  and 
you  have  to  hear  her  scandal  from  somebody 
else?" 

"What  scandal?"  demanded  Zoe. 

"Oh,  it's  all  over  the  place,"  Maisie  said, 
tossing  her  hat  into  the  closet  and  sitting  down 
on  Julie's  bed.  "Christopher  Kane  and  Zoe 
Bourne  have  been  carrying  on.  Everybody 
remembers  that  Kane  hired  you  in  the  first  place 
and  shoved  you  into  the  copy  room  with  no 
experience  at  all,  and  so  the  general  idea  is  that 
you  have  a  handsome  apartment  on  the  Drive 
and  Mr.  Kane  pays  the  bills.  Somebody — I 
think  it  was  Peggy — said  that  Mrs.  Kane  ought 
to  be  told.  How  would  you  fancy  a  career  as 
a  corespondent,  dearie?" 


WHITHER  195 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Zoe,  startled  out 
of  her  rather  flattered  composure.  (After  all 
is  was  something  to  be  considered  fascinating 
enough  to  break  up  a  home ! )  Being  named  as 
corespondent — what  would  Bill  Cornell  think? 

"Did — did  everybody  hear  what  they  were 
saying?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

Maisie  looked  noncommittal. 

"Don't  see  how  they  could  help  it,  but  I  can't 
say.  Those  who  weren't  talking  were  listening 
and  that  office  has  got — you  know  what  I  mean 
— it's  got  acoustics." 

Zoe  knew  then  that  Bill  Cornell  and  the  whole 
office  were  thinking  the  worst.  Fine,  wholesome 
fellows  like  Bill  always  believed  things  like  that. 

"He'll  think  now  that  I  really  am  bad,"  Zoe 
told  herself  bitterly,  "Al  Schuler  first,  and  now 
—this." 

After  a  few  days  Zoe  had  other  things  to 
think  of  than  how  Bill  Cornell  would  take  the 
gossip  about  herself  and  Kane.  Kane  wrote 
her  a  brief,  ironic  note  from  Chicago,  evidently 
having  learned  of  the  episode  through  some  one 
in  the  office.  He  offered  to  help  her  find  a  new 
job,  but  Zoe  decided  that  there  was  no  use  in 
making  things  look  worse  if  people  were  out  for 
scandal.  So  she  applied  at  several  offices  on  her 
own  hook.  It  was  not  encouraging,  for  it  seemed 
that  the  whole  world  wanted  to  get  into  adver- 
tising.    Besides,  she  had  no  recommendation 


196  WHITHER 

from  her  last  office.  She  would  have  died  rather 
than  refer  them  to  Mr.  Bergman. 

She  found  the  girls  singularly  sympathetic  in 
her  awkward  predicament. 

"You  didn't  have  any  trouble  getting  a  job 
when  you  first  came,"  Fania  said  curiously. 
"Why  should  it  be  hard  now  when  you've  had  so 
much  more  experience?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Zoe  answered,  bitterly. 
"When  I  tell  them  I  have  had  nearly  a  year's 
experience  they  say,  'Ah,  but  you've  only  had 
one  year  of  college.  We  require  graduates,'  If 
I  lie  and  say  I've  a  degree,  then  it's  fresh  high- 
school  workers  they  want." 

"Maybe  you  ask  too  much  money,"  reflected 
Maisie. 

"Forty,"  said  Zoe.  "If  you're  any  good  at 
all,  you're  worth  that." 

"You  have  to  look  as  if  you'd  always  been 
getting  that,  though,"  Julie  said,  shrewdly,  "and 
that  old  coat  of  yours  simply  shrieks,  'Eighteen 
dollars  a  week  and  glad  to  get  it! '  " 

Zoe  colored  resentfully,  but  finally  admitted 
the  truth  of  Julie's  logic. 

"You'd  have  a  lot  better  luck  if  you  got  some 
new  clothes,"  Julie  continued.  "You've  got  style 
and  verve  and  things  like  that,  but  you  can't 
overcome  the  lines  of  that  three-year-old  coat, 
Zoe,  and  there's  no  use  trying." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Fania.  Fania  had  left 
the  art  school  to  do  "window-sketching"  for  a 


WHITHER  197 

department  store.  "Everybody  always  goes  and 
gets  a  whole  new  wardrobe  as  soon  as  they  lose 
a  job." 

"But  how?"  Zoe  demanded,  blankly. 

"There's  that,"  considered  Julie.  "Zoe  didn't 
save  any  money  from  her  royal — er — compe- 
tence, and  I'm  in  the  hole  myself  waiting  for 
this  old  musical  comedy  to  go  into  rehearsal  and 
Dad  tightening  up,  too." 

"Charge  account.  Use  mine,"  said  Fania. 
"It's  all  right  at  Altman's  and  Lord  and  Taylor's, 
but  for  heaven's  sake  don't  mention  my  name  at 
Wanamaker's.  They  think  I'm  dead  and  I  wish 
I  was  so  far  as  they're  concerned.  Then  there 
are  a  couple  of  little  shops  I  know  where  you 
could  go  and  use  my  credit.  Only  remember 
me  the  middle  of  next  month,  darling.  The  fif- 
teenth of  the  month  following  the  purchase,  you 
know,  is  the  day  of  reckoning." 

"Better  do  it,  Zoe,"  said  Julie,  carelessly. 
"Fania's  right.  No  business  man  ever  hires  any- 
body who  looks  as  if  she  really  needed  a  job. 
I've  known  girls  who  borrowed  fur  coats  and 
diamonds  and  so  on,  and  men  fairly  insisted  on 
giving  them  jobs.  Just  because  they  looked  as 
if  they  could  get  along  perfectly  well  without 
one." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Zoe,  helplessly,  "will  you 
give  me  your  card,  Fania?  I'm  sure  to  get  a 
position  within  the  next  ten  days — heavens,  if 
I  have  to  wait  that  long! — and  I'll  pay  you 


198  WHITHER 

back  at  once.  You  see  I'm  just  going  to  take 
anything,  absolutely,  anything  I  can  find  that 
pays  me  a  salary." 

"Might  try  theatrical  work,"  suggested  Julie, 
but  Zoe  was  not  impressed  with  the  practicality 
of  the  idea. 

The  very  next  day  Zoe  started  out  shopping 
for  a  new  coat.  Now  a  perfectly  simple  coat 
would  be  exactly  the  thing  if  it  were  cut  right. 
That  would  make  her  whole  costume  look  smart. 
It  was  true,  as  the  girls  had  said,  that  the  most 
important  thing  in  landing  a  job  in  New  York 
was  a  good  appearance.  And  a  coat — only  a  coat 
— would  do  the  trick. 

But  the  coat  department  in  the  first  store 
she  entered  was  apparently  in  league  with  every 
other  department  in  the  store.  The  saleslady, 
one  of  those  slim,  boneless,  svelte  New  York 
salesladies,  had  decided  on  the  coat  which  looked 
best  on  Zoe.  By  an  odd  coincidence  it  proved 
to  be  the  most  expensive  one  in  the  group. 

"It  looks  too  elaborate  for  street,"  demurred 
Zoe,  determined  not  to  admit  that  she  had  seen 
the  price  tag. 

The  saleslady  gave  her  a  rather  pitying  smile. 

"It's  your  shoes,  dear,"  she  informed  Zoe. 
"Once  you  have  some  really  smart  looking  gray 
suede  shoes  instead  of  those  oxfords,  you  won't 
know  yourself." 

"I  wanted  brown  instead  of  blue,"  Zoe  added. 

"But  blue  is  your  color,  dear,"  the  saleslady 


WHITHER  199 

said,  gently.  "Sallow  people  ought  never  to 
wear  brown." 

"But  you  see  I  wanted  brown  to  match  my 
hat,"  Zoe  explained,  letting  the  "sallow"  thrust 
pass. 

The  saleslady  stared  at  the  hat,  and  Zoe  be- 
came aware  that,  after  all,  she  had  only  paid 
eight  dollars  for  it. 

"You  mean — that  hat?" 

Zoe  gave  a  short,  embarrassed  laugh  and  the 
saleslady  looked  relieved.  She  adjusted  a  hair 
in  her  flawless  coiffure. 

"Oh,  I  see  you  were  joking.  I  thought  you 
couldn't  have  meant  that  hat.  Of  course  it's 
a  perfectly  good  knockabout  hat,  but  I  was  sure 
you  couldn't  have  meant  to  wear  it  with  any  of 
our  spring  models." 

"Just  a  knockabout,"  repeated  Zoe,  realizing 
that  she  would  have  to  stop  in  the  millinery 
department.  She  studied  her  image  in  the  mir- 
ror again.  It  was  a  good  looking  coat  and  she 
was  quite  aware  of  its  becomingness,  but  ninety- 
five  dollars!  Why  she  could  never  pay  Fania 
back! 

"It's — a  little  long,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"The  mode,"  said  the  saleslady,  briskly.  "Of 
course  you  have  good  legs  and  that's  why  you 
stick  to  the  shorter  skirts.  But  no  one  who  has 
any  regard  for  style — you  know  what  I  mean? — 
wears  skirts  above  the  eight-inch  mark  any  more. 
You  see  this  is  exactly  right.    And  that  draped 


200  WHITHER 

effect  at  the  side — a  Jenny  touch,  of  course — 
is  exactly  right  for  you.  It  hides  your  figure — 
or,  you  know  what  I  mean — it  makes  you  look 
a  little  plumper  than  you  are.  I'm  thin,  too,  but 
I  do  have — er — curves." 

She  patted  her  curves  with  delicate  appreci- 
ation. 

"Perhaps  I  am  thin,"  Zoe  said,  somewhat 
stiffly,  "but  frankly  I  don't  think  I  want  this 
coat.    It's  too " 

But  the  saleslady  had  silently  turned  her 
around  to  view  the  back,  and  Zoe  could  not 
truthfully  say  that  the  back  of  that  coat  was 
anything  but  a  marvel  of  perfection.  She 
couldn't  help  but  get  a  job  in  that  coat,  and — 
Bill  Cornell  always  liked  girls  to  look  nice. 

Still  she  hesitated.  There  was  no  use  trying 
to  fool  herself  into  believing  that  she  could  raise 
ninety-five  dollars  for  Fania  inside  of  three 
weeks.  The  saleslady  was  faintly  irritated,  and 
picked  up  the  hem  of  the  coat,  revealing  the  soft 
gray  silk  lining. 

"You  see  how  that's  finished?  You'll  never 
find  that  value  any  place  else  in  town,  dear.  Not 
for  under  two  hundred.  I'm  telling  you  the 
simple  truth  because  I'd  rather  have  you  come 
back  in  a  year  or  so  and  say,  'Miss  McCann,  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  selling  me  that  lovely 
coat  and  I  want  to  buy  another  one.'  You  see 
I  only  want  you  to  be  satisfied.  It's  nothing  to 
me,  naturally,  what  you  buy.    And  besides,  I 


WHITHER  201 

want  you  to  look  chic.  A  girl  as  unusual  looking 
as  you  are  ought  to  take  more  pains  with  her 
appearance.  No  reason  for  you  to  look  like  an 
old  maid  till  you're  in  your  thirties,  is  there?" 

Zoe  absently  permitted  the  innuendo  to  pass. 
She  was  seeing  herself  in  a  dozen  different  situ- 
ations in  that  coat.  It  looked  suave  and  elegant 
in  its  rich-piled  texture  and  Parisian  lines.  That 
lovely  soft  fur,  too. 

"You  don't  want  it?"  asked  the  saleslady, 
briskly,  making  a  move  to  help  her  off  with  it. 
"I'm  afraid  that's  the  best  I  can  do  under  a 
hundred.    Sorry." 

Zoe  watched  her,  torn  with  desire,  take  the 
coat  away.  She  couldn't  bear  not  to  have  that 
coat.    She  simply  had  to  have  it. 

"I'll  take  it,"  she  called  quickly.  "Send  the 
old  one,  please.    I'll  wear  this  one." 

After  ninety-five  dollars,  ten  for  shoes  and 
fifteen  for  an  alluring,  sophisticated  little  toque 
seemed  paltry  enough,  although  Zoe  had  to 
admit  that,  if  she  had  actually  had  to  pay  cash 
for  these  articles  instead  of  charging  them  to 
Fania's  magic  account,  she  would  have  con- 
sidered them  vastly  overpriced.  She  could  not 
resist  wearing  all  of  her  new  things  out  of  the 
store,  and  so  powerful  is  the  influence  of  good 
clothes,  Zoe  actually  felt  there  was  no  reason  in 
the  world  why  she  shouldn't  ask  for  sixty  or 
seventy  dollars  a  week  at  her  next  job.  Allan 
Myers  had  once  declared  that  was  the  thing  to 


202  WHITHER 

do.  He  said  nobody  asked  for  less  than  fifty 
unless  they  really  were  no  good.  Employers 
knew  it,  too.  If  you  asked  for  seventy-five  a 
week,  they  knew  you  were  good  fifty  or  sixty 
dollar  stuff.  If  you  asked  for  thirty,  they  knew 
you  were  just  that — thirty-dollar  stuff. 

"Of  course,"  Allan  had  conceded,  "if  he  stag- 
gers your  price,  you  can  finally  say  how  inter- 
ested you  are  in  his  line  of  work,  and  how  you 
would  rather  learn  something  new  at  a  reduced 
salary  than  to  hold  out  for  a  large  sum." 

At  the  time,  Zoe  had  been  horrified  at  the 
idea.  What!  A  person  with  only  eight  months' 
experience  in  advertising  to  triple  her  salary? 
It  was  unthinkable.  She  would  never  dare  to 
ask  it.  But  today,  under  the  influence  of  her 
new  clothes,  she  was  not  afraid  to  ask  that  much. 
She  felt  that  she  was  really  worth  it.  Why, 
think  of  the  splendid  copy  she  had  written  for 
that  ungrateful  old  beast,  Bergman!  Hadn't 
Mr.  Kane  told  her,  too,  that  she  was  a  born 
copywriter? 

The  thought  of  Bergman  brought  a  wave  of 
disgust  over  her.  She  had  been  too  stunned  and 
incredulous  at  the  uprooting  of  her  job  to  think 
of  the  incident  much,  but,  occasionally,  the 
shame  of  it  overwhelmed  her.  She  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  the  store,  only  half  aware  of  her 
new  clothes,  suddenly  taken  with  a  furious 
desire  for  revenge. 

Why  should  she  be  caught  in  somebody  else's 


WHITHER  203 

trap?  What  had  she  to  do  with  old  Bergman's 
code  of  etiquette  or  Kane's  domestic  connec- 
tions? Why  should  she  suffer  for  Bergman's 
silly  scruples?  Here  she  was — simply  an  em- 
ployee in  a  certain  office  and,  because  she  accepts 
an  invitation  to  share  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus  seat 
with  a  man  from  her  office,  she  is  insulted  by 
her  employer  and  has  to  resign  from  her  job? 
It  was  childish.  It  might  have  been  different  if 
it  had  been  Bill  Cornell  who  was  the  married 
man  in  the  case.  She  would  have  felt  guilty  just 
for  being  in  love  with  him,  whether  she'd  been 
compromised  by  him  or  not.  And  she  would 
have  been  embarrassed  instead  of  insulted  at 
Mr.  Bergman's  insinuations  because — because 
they  might  easily  have  been  true.  But  Mr. 
Kane 

After  a  quick,  unreasoning  anger  against 
Kane,  for  letting  her  into  this  disagreeable 
tangle,  Zoe  felt  a  wave  of  pity  for  him.  He 
must  have  been  frightfully  ashamed  when  he 
found  how  Zoe  had  been  dragged  into  his  affairs. 
He,  at  least,  knew  how  utterly  blameless  she 
had  been  and  how  Bergman's  words  must  have 
offended  her.  It  was  too  bad  he  need  be  so 
poignantly  embarrassed — for  he  must  be — but 
Zoe  was  satisfied  to  know  that  at  least  some 
one  must  realize  how  cruelly  she  had  been 
treated. 

A  girl  jostled  Zoe  and  she  awoke  to  her  sur- 
roundings.    She  glanced  in  the  shop  window 


204  WHITHER 

and  was  recalled  to  her  new  wardrobe  by  the 
strangely  familiar,  smartly  outlined  image  there. 
A  surge  of  self-satisfaction  swept  over  her.  She 
elevated  her  nose  a  little  and  swept  along  the 
street  as  one  accustomed  to  limousines.  Really, 
there  was  nothing — nothing  that  could  take 
away  the  consciousness  of  being  well  dressed ! 

Her  ardor  was  dampened  by  calling  in  a  few 
advertising  offices  she  knew  of  and  being  refused. 
True,  they  did  refuse  her  with  respectful  admi- 
ration for  her  costume,  but — well,  she  didn't 
get  a  job.  She  started  uptown  toward  another 
agency. 

"'Lo,  Zoe,"  she  heard  a  voice  call,  and  saw 
Margot  Waite  behind  her.  Margot's  rouge 
burned  in  round,  artificial  spots  on  her  cheeks 
and  the  powder  stood  out  purplishly  on  her 
usually  attractive  face.  She  had  evidently  been 
down  all  day  and  was  tired  out. 

Zoe  was  not  loath  to  have  her  costume 
admired,  but  Margot  paid  no  attention  to  it. 

"Just  been  making  the  round  again.  Selwyn's, 
Morosco,  Schubert's,  and  the  rest,"  she  said, 
tucking  her  hand  under  Zoe's  arm.  "I'm  sick  of 
it.  I'm  dead  broke  and  I  owe  Mrs.  Horne  three 
weeks'  rent." 

"What?  You,  too?"  Zoe  was  somewhat 
heartened  to  know  that  other  people  had  their 
troubles,  too. 

Margot  nodded. 

"There  isn't  a  single  reason  why  I  shouldn't 


WHITHER  205 

go  out  and  dive  under  an  automobile.  I'm  a 
failure.  I  don't  know  why  I  hang  on.  But  I'm 
almost  at  the  end  of  things  now.    You  can  stand 

disappointment    just    so    long    and    then " 

Margot  shrugged. 

"I  would  never  have  the  courage  to  finish 
things,  though,"  said  Zoe,  shuddering,  "even  if 
I  knew  the  future  didn't  hold  a  single  bright 
spot  for  me,  and  right  now  I  don't  see  that  it 
does.    But  I  wouldn't  end  things." 

"I  would,"  said  Margot,  abruptly,  and  then 
hastened  on.  "Will  you  come  over  to  Packard's 
office  with  me?  Might  as  well  go  to  a  couple 
of  agencies  while  I'm  down  here.  I  haven't 
car  fare  enough  to  come  down  again  tomorrow." 

"I'm  out  of  a  job  myself,  and  perfectly  broke," 
said  Zoe. 

"You  don't  look  it,"  said  Margot.  "You  look 
like  a  million.  Why  don't  you  sign  up  at  Pack- 
ard's? They  might  have  something  you  could 
get  in." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Zoe,  "but  of 
course  I  daren't  let  any  prospect  of  earning 
something  slide." 

Perhaps  they  might  hand  her  a  part  at  once 
and  she  would  be  a  famous  actress  instead  of  a 
writer.  Perhaps  this  was  Destiny.  Perhaps, 
when  she  became  another  Duse,  she  would  look 
back  on  that  moment  as  the  turning  point  of 
her  life.  She  took  Margot's  suggestion  and  they 
walked  toward  Broadway. 


206  WHITHER 

The  theatrical  agency  office  was  not  stimu- 
lating. Zoe,  sensitized  by  her  own  failure,  saw 
only  veiled  disappointment  and  hopelessness  on 
the  faces  of  the  dozen  waiting  men  and  women. 
Margot,  herself,  on  the  verge  of  suicide,  did  not 
forget  to  rouge  her  lips  mechanically  before  they 
entered  the  office.  At  a  desk  by  the  door  sat 
a  girl  who,  Margot  told  her,  announced  their 
names  as  they  entered  to  the  gods  of  the  inner 
offices  by  means  of  some  new  sort  of  writing 
machine. 

"And  it  actually  does  write  it  out  the  minute 
she  sends  in  the  name?"  incredulously  demanded 
Zoe,  and  Margot  nodded. 

The  waiting  applicants  were  separated  from 
the  private  offices  by  a  little  fenced  partition, 
behind  which  two  office  girls  interviewed  them 
and,  if  it  so  suited  the  powers,  permitted  them 
to  go  into  the  private  office.  Each  time  one  of 
them  sent  a  searching  eye  over  the  group,  the 
waiting  job-seekers  would  straighten  up  with 
desperate  hopefulness  and  wait  for  the  name  to 
be  called  out.  To  Margot  the  two  girls  shook 
their  heads  in  the  negative.  Zoe  was  permitted 
behind  the  fence  to  sign  a  card  of  application. 

"Don't  tell  them  you've  had  no  experience," 
whispered  Margot,  "say  you've  done  stock." 

"We  may  have  something  later  on  in  the 
week,"  said  the  girl  to  Margot.  "Come  in  about 
Friday." 

"All  right,"  said  Margot,  wearily. 


WHITHER  207 

As  they  left  the  office,  she  turned  to  Zoe  with 
a  sigh  of  self-contempt. 

"They've  kept  me  going  with  their  'Come  in 
about  Friday/  for  five  years,"  she  said,  dis- 
gustedly. "The  worst  of  it  is,  no  matter  how 
near  I  am  to  jumping  in  the  East  River,  they 
have  only  to  say  that  and  I  turn  around  and 
trot  back  for  another  slap  in  the  face.  I'm  sick 
of  it,  I  tell  you.    Sick  of  the  whole  damn  mess!" 

The  hoarse  sob  in  her  voice  frightened  Zoe. 

"But  I  tell  you  it  can't  go  on  forever.  And 
I'm  through!  Do  you  hear,  Zoe?  I'm  through 
with  it!" 

Zoe  stopped  short,  carried  out  of  her  own 
troubles  by  the  grim  desperation  in  Margot's 
face. 

"Let's  walk,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Zoe,  as  she  took  Margot's  arm  and  walked 
across  to  Fifth  Avenue,  was  frightened.  Margot 
had  been  through  the  struggle  and  had  found  it 
led  to  nothing  but  the  East  River.  Here  was  a 
girl  who  had  been  churned  about  in  this  whirl- 
pool of  ambition  for  years  and  at  the  end  found 
bleak  despair.  Zoe  felt  a  catch  in  her  throat 
and  wondered,  terrified,  if  she,  too,  would  come 
to  that  gray  wall  after  she  had  gone  on  as  long 
as  Margot  had. 

They  walked  silently  along  Forty-second 
Street  and  turned  up  the  Avenue.  It  was  during 
that  instant's  lull  that  comes  before  the  home- 
ward-bound shoppers  begin  to  pour  out  from  the 
great  stores,  and  the  offices  to  release  their 
armies  of  workers.  A  few  lights  had  come  on 
along  the  street  and  sent  a  defiant,  puny  glow 
against  the  dying  sun.  The  sounds  of  the  city 
and  its  hurrying  people  seemed  to  have  melted 
into  one  great  windlike  monotone  that  was  as 
vast  as  silence. 

"I  love  it,"  Zoe  whispered  to  herself.  No, 
surely,  no  matter  what  it  did  to  her  she  could 
never  lose  her  love  of  life.  Yet  here  beside  her 
was  one  who  had  felt  that  same  zest  at  one  time. 
Perhaps  after  a  few  years,  if  one's  dreams 
failed.  .   .   . 

208 


WHITHER  209 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  Margot?"  Zoe 
asked. 

Margot  did  not  lift  her  tired,  discontented 
eyes. 

"Nine  years,"  she  said,  "I'm  twenty-eight. 
You're  not  in  the  profession  or  you'd  know  what 
it  means  to  be  twenty-eight  without  having  got- 
ten over — ever." 

"But  why?"  asked  Zoe,  almost  abstractedly. 
Other  girls  got  on.  It  seemed  strange  that 
Margot  and  these  girls  at  Mrs.  Home's  never 
attained  the  success  that  a  thousand  very  medi- 
ocre other  girls  did.  Girls  without  the  beauty, 
intelligence,  ability,  financial  background  of 
Mrs.  Home's  group,  too. 

"Luck,  Zoe,  that's  all,"  bitterly  answered  Mar- 
got. Her  usually  piquant,  round  face  seemed  to 
have  taken  on  new  lines,  and  Zoe  winced  at  the 
incongruity  of  the  woman's  suffering  in  the  eyes, 
and  the  pouting,  childlike  mouth. 

"I  suppose  it's  something  besides  luck," 
drearily  went  on  Margot.  "I've  thought  some- 
times that  the  reason  I  failed  was  because  I  was 
always  sure  of  a  comfortable  enough  life  whether 
I  got  on  or  not.  If  I  was  as  broke  nine  years  ago 
as  I  am  now  I  would  be  successful  by  this  time, 
I  believe.  You  see  you  have  to  swallow  your 
pride  when  it's  a  question  of  starvation.  But 
Mother  always  told  me  I  should  hold  out  for  the 
best  parts  and  she  kept  sending  me  a  good  allow- 
ance.   Sometimes  things  were  a  little  tight,  and 


210  WHITHER 

she'd  have  to  sell  some  furniture  or  something 
to  get  money  for  me,  but  she  said  it  was  because 
our  money  was  all  tied  up  in  stocks  and  things. 
I  never  dreamed  there  wasn't  any  more  until 
she  died — this  summer  you  know.  I  guess  I  had 
used  it  all  up." 

Margot  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Zoe  had  a 
momentary  irritation  against  this  girl  who  had 
exacted  such  a  sacrifice  from  her  mother.  At 
least  her  mother  was  not  too  proud  to  sacrifice 
something  for  her  daughter's  career,  even  if  the 
daughter  herself  made  no  such  sacrifice. 

"She  never  had  a  fur  coat  in  her  life,"  Margot 
pursued,  almost  wonderingly.  "I  had  four  in 
the  last  ten  years.  You  see,  no  matter  what 
happens  to  you,  a  girl  who  wants  to  go  on  the 
stage  can  never  afford  to  be  shabby.  If  you 
don't  eat  for  a  week  you  have  to  look  well 
dressed.  I  always  did,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  do 
any  good.  I  always  looked  nicer  than  any  of 
the  other  girls  in  the  offices.  You  can  tell,  you 
know." 

"Didn't  you  even  get  an  offer?"  Zoe  asked, 
in  amazement.  She  noticed,  preoccupiedly,  that 
the  streets  were  beginning  to  be  crowded  and 
the  New  York  of  the  nighttime  was  beginning  to 
stir  itself  faintly. 

"Of  course,"  Margot  answered,  impatiently, 
"everybody  does.  Chorus  and  vaudeville  and 
little  stock  companies  out  in  Utah  or  something 
like  that.    When  you're  poor  you  usually  have 


WHITHER  211 

to  take  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  wanted  to  do 
something  big.  I  wanted  to  play  on  Broadway 
and  have  a  good  part.  I  wanted  to  be  famous 
and  wealthy  and  have  everybody  proud  of  me. 
Once  I  took  a  part  in  a  vaudeville  skit — I  was 
desperate  and  money  had  been  slow  that  year. 
But  when  the  rehearsal  was  called,  I — I  didn't 
go.    I  couldn't  bear  it." 

"The  experience  might  have  helped  you," 
said  Zoe. 

Margot  whirled  on  her  almost  angrily. 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand.  Nobody  would 
understand  but  a  professional  person.  How 
could  I  go  on  in  a  ten,  twenty  and  thirty  act, 
playing  the  part  of  a  little  stage  flapper  when  I 
wanted  to  play  Hauptmann  or  Ibsen  or  Shaw? 
I  didn't  want  to  go  on  the  stage  as  a  business. 
I  wanted  it  as  an  art.    Can't  you  understand?" 

Tears  were  in  Margot's  eyes  and  Zoe  felt  a 
wave  of  pity  for  this  poor,  pretty  little  failure. 
It  had  been  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say  that 
she  had  failed  only  because  she  had  never  tried, 
but  it  wasn't  true.  Margot  had  tried.  Zoe  drew 
her  back  to  her  side,  and  Margot  brushed  her 
eyes  swiftly. 

"You  do  understand,  I  know,"  she  apologized. 
"You're  a  dear.  It's  a  relief  to  have  some  one 
I  can  talk  to.  After  you've  tried  to  bluff  the 
world  so  long — I  had  to  bluff  even  Mother,  you 
know — it's  heavenly  to  have  some  one  you  can 
trust  with  the  truth.    I  wouldn't  dare  trust  the 


212  WHITHER 

others  at  Mrs.  Home's.  They'd  act  like  a  bunch 
of  buzzards  over  dead  meat.  You  do  under- 
stand, though,  why  I  couldn't  take  vaudeville  or 
chorus?  Once  or  twice  I  almost  went  into 
stock,  too,  but  then  Mother  got  some  money  in 
time  so  that  I  didn't  need  to  and  could  afford 
to  wait  a  little  longer  for  a  big  opportunity." 

"You  should  have  done  it,  anyway — oh,  I 
know  you  should  have!"  murmured  Zoe,  with 
conviction.  This  time  Margot  did  not  get  angry 
at  the  reproach.  She  looked  scowlingly  at  the 
trail  of  busses  and  taxis  that  blocked  their  prog- 
ress at  the  Fifty-seventh  Street  crossing. 

"I'll  have  to  do  it  now,  I  suppose,  if — if  I 
can  stick  it  out  a  while  longer,"  she  sighed. 
"Only  now — you  see  I've  turned  down  that  sort 
of  thing  for  so  long  that  the  agents  never  sug- 
gest it  to  me  any  more.  And  twenty-eight  is 
old.  Twenty-four  is  old,  even,  in  our  profession. 
If  you're  that  old  and  haven't  done  anything  to 
speak  of,  there's  no  use  hoping." 

"You  don't  look  even  twenty-four  as  a  rule," 
honestly  said  Zoe.    Margot  paid  no  heed. 

"I  did  a  week  of  Chautauqua  stuff  once.  It 
was  ghastly.  You  know  Rowena  Shay?  She's 
the  sort  of  thing  they  want.  And  I've  done  a 
few  readings  at  clubs  and  was  in  some  benefit 
performance  two  or  three  times.  I  want  to  be 
something  of  more  account  than  that,  though." 

She  remembered  her  present  circumstances 
and  laughed  sarcastically. 


WHITHER  213 

"It's  time  I  was  getting  over  it,  now.  I  told 
you  I  owe  Mrs.  Home.  I  owe  a  lot  to  a  man 
at  home,  too.  He  used  to  want  to  marry  me,  but 
I've  told  him  it  was  out  of  the  question  so  many 
times  that  finally  he's  come  to  believe  me.  But 
he  has  helped  me  since  Mother  died — three  hun- 
dred dollars.  Of  course  I  daren't  let  that  go. 
Anybody  else  in  the  world.  And  there's  more. 
I'm  in  deeper  than  you  know." 

Zoe  pressed  her  hand.  Margot,  her  eyes  star- 
ing straight  ahead,  rushed  on  almost  hysterically. 

"There  was  a  man,  a  manager,  who  always 
tried  to  make  love  to  me.  I  liked  him  all  right — 
he  was  better  than  most  of  them,  but  I  knew  he 
was  married  and  he's  nearly  fifty  anyway.  But 
after  last  fall,  after  Fred's  money  ran  out  and 
I  didn't  know  where  I  was  going  or  how,  I  got 
desperate.  Girls  do,  you  know.  And  I  knew 
he  could  make  me  a  star  if  he  wanted  to  and 
cut  short  this  awful  waiting.  So  one  day  I — 
well,  I  stayed  with  him  one  week  end  in  Atlantic 
City." 

Zoe's  heart  seemed  to  have  stopped  beating. 

"I  suppose  it  was  a  joke,  if  you  could  look  at 
it  in  the  right  way,"  Margot  went  on  presently. 
"He  didn't  offer  to  make  me  a  star  at  all.  He 
offered  me  money.  I  went  off  my  head  and  he 
said  he  sometimes  made  his  stars  his  mistresses 
but  he  didn't  make  his  mistresses  his  stars." 

Margot  gulped,  but  set  her  mouth  firmly  and 
went  on. 


214  WHITHER 

"I  almost  killed  him,  Zoe.  He  said  he  would 
give  me  a  tryout  some  time  in  a  small  part,  but 
I  was  too  mad  to  take  it  up.  But  that  affair  has 
eaten  on  my  mind  until  I'm  almost  insane. 
Nothing — nothing  in  the  whole  world  seems  to 
get  me  what  I  want.    Not  even — that." 

Aching  with  pity  for  Margot,  as  she  was, 
Zoe's  reason  kept  demanding  insistently  why 
Margot  or  any  one  else  should  make  such  tre- 
mendous sacrifices  to  avoid  work.  She  had  ad- 
mitted that  she  might  have  gone  into  the  chorus 
or  stock  company  or  vaudeville  and  Zoe  knew 
that  stars  were  often  picked  from  these  byways 
all  the  time.  Chorus  girls  obtained  a  single  line 
and  did  it  so  well  they  secured  a  small  part 
next  time,  and,  in  a  little  while,  their  names 
shone  in  electric  lights  on  Broadway.  She  could 
understand  why  Margot  avoided  the  chorus. 
But  it  must  be  sheer  fear  of  work  that  kept  her 
from  stock  company  or  the  two  or  three  a  day 
vaudeville.  Great  actresses  slaved  for  years 
in  stock  companies,  feeling  rewarded  in  the 
knowledge  that  they  were  enriching  their  abili- 
ties, broadening  their  scope,  and  preparing 
themselves  for  bigger  things.  Christopher  Kane 
had  told  her  that  a  true  artist  draws  knowledge 
from  the  most  sordid  phases  of  his  art  as  the 
sun  draws  vapor  from  refuse.  And  even  her 
despised  flapper  role  would  have  taught  her  stage 
presence. 

"Poor  Margot,"  said  Zoe,  softly.     Her  own 


WHITHER  215 

troubles  seemed  to  blow  away  before  this  moun- 
tain of  misery.  In  her  mind  was  a  lurking  fear 
that,  in  ten  years,  she  might  be  as  much  in  the 
doldrums  as  Margot.  But  no,  surely  not,  she 
told  herself,  if  she  kept  working  conscientiously 
toward  her  goal.  If  she — Zoe's  eyes  clouded  as 
she  realized,  with  terrific  suddenness,  that  she 
was  not  truly  working  toward  any  goal,  but  was, 
like  Margot,  spending  her  time  waiting  for  some- 
thing great  to  come  to  her.  She  gripped  Mar- 
got's  arm.  They  were  alike.  She  was  as  blind 
and  stupid  as  Margot. 

"And  now — now  there  isn't  any  reason  for 
anything,"  said  Margot,  in  a  small,  tired  voice. 
"I  can't  hope  any  more,  even.  And  when  there 
isn't  any  hope  left  you  might  as  well  die.  One 
of  these  days  I  will " 

M argot's  mouth  grew  sullen.  Zoe  dragged  her 
across  Seventh  Avenue,  toward  Broadway. 

"You're  not  going  to  do  any  such  thing,  do 
you  hear?"  she  said,  tensely.  "You're  not! 
You're  not!  You've  got  to  try  something — 
really  try  something  first,  Margot." 

The  girl's  face  flooded  with  color.  She  tugged 
at  Zoe's  lapels  with  her  two  hands. 

"You'll  help  me,  Zoe?  You  won't  let  me  do 
anything  foolish?    You'll  make  me  do  things?" 

"Of  course." 


CHAPTER  XX 

It  seemed  to  Zoe  that  those  next  two  weeks 
were  endless.  Encouraged  by  her  new  wardrobe, 
she  had  gone  to  a  score  of  offices.  She  had  tried 
department  store  offices  and  newspapers  and 
agencies.  She  had  left  her  name  at  employ- 
ment agencies  for  plain,  clerical  work,  but,  in 
the  few  tips  they  had  given  her,  she  had  arrived 
after  the  vacancy  was  filled.  She  had  not  dared, 
finally,  to  ask  for  more  than  thirty-five  dollars. 
Spring  was  a  bad  season  for  advertising,  and 
Zoe  decided  she  would  have  to  take  less  than 
that  if  she  were  to  get  work. 

Even  with  her  lowered  purchase  price  her 
plight  grew  no  better.  It  seemed  one  had  to  be 
a  really  good  clerk  in  order  to  get  even  a  clerical 
position.  And  the  business  college  graduates, 
with  their  unbelievably  small  salaries,  swamped 
the  market  now. 

Fania  Tell  began  to  be  uneasy  about  the  big 
bills  which  Zoe  incurred  in  her  name,  and  re- 
minded her  that  she  would  lose  her  credit  if  they 
weren't  paid  within  the  month  of  purchase.  Zoe 
saw  no  prospect  of  paying  them  within  six 
months,  and  she  groaned  over  the  vanity  which 
had  led  her  to  follow  Julie's  advice.  And  there 
was  five  weeks'  board  due  to  Mrs.  Home,  too. 

216 


WHITHER  217 

Once  out  of  sight  of  Fania's  reproachful  face 
and  Mrs.  Home,  however,  Zoe  was  glad  of  her 
new  clothes.  No  matter  how  blue  or  downcast 
she  became,  it  was  a  comfort  to  know  that  she 
was  well  dressed.  If  only  she  didn't  feel  like 
such  a  sneak  when  she  was  around  the  house! 
At  night,  Zoe  would  sometimes  cry  for  hours  over 
the  hot  shame  of  being  poor.  It  was  her  fault. 
She  should  never  have  come  to  New  York.  She 
should  have  stayed  in  Albon  and  been  pleasantly 
mediocre.  Through  it  all  Zoe  felt  Bill's  neglect. 
He  had  never  even  called  her  up.  She  had  just 
slipped  out  of  his  life.  How  could  he  be  so  cruel 
when  he  must  know  how  much  she  suffered? 
Perhaps  he  believed  the  tales  Maisie  said  were 
afloat  about  the  office  regarding  her  relations 
with  Kane.  Then  he  would  think  she  had  only 
been  amusing  herself  with  him,  and,  having  more 
than  his  share  of  masculine  vanity,  he  probably 
decided  to  finish  with  her. 

Thinking  about  Bill  was  devastating.  She 
knew  it  must  be  love,  because  the  mere  thought 
of  him  poured  the  blood  into  her  brain  so  that 
she  could  not  reason  about  him.  Was  he  clever? 
Was  he  really  suited  to  her?  Was  he  her  true 
ideal?  She  couldn't  tell.  She  only  knew  she  was 
mad  about  him. 

And  then  she  missed  Kane.  There  were  so 
many  things  she  wanted  to  talk  over  with  him. 
She  needed  his  understanding.  He  wouldn't  say 
she  was  vain  and  foolish  to  take  Fania's  credit 


218  WHITHER 

to  bolster  up  her  self-respect.  He  would  prob- 
ably understand  about  Bill,  too,  only  it  was  a 
difficult  thing  to  talk  about.  No,  she  couldn't 
talk  about  Bill  with  Kane  any  more  than  she 
could  talk  about  Kane  with  Bill.  It  was  all  a 
troublesome  problem. 

One  day,  acting  on  an  irresistible  impulse,  Zoe 
went  down  to  the  stationery  and  cigar  store  in 
which  Bill  always  stopped  for  cigarettes  after 
office  hours.  It  was  in  the  building  next  to  the 
office,  and  at  another,  saner  time  Zoe  might  have 
reasoned  that  there  was  no  earthly  excuse  for 
her  being  in  that  store  at  five-thirty  in  the  after- 
noon. But  she  was  beyond  excuses.  She  had 
to  see  Bill. 

She  pretended  to  be  examining  some  station- 
ery, yet  she  kept  her  eye  on  the  entrance  of 
the  store,  so  that  even  if  he  should  pass^ — but 
he  would  not  pass.  He  always  got  cigarettes 
there,  and  Zoe  felt  that  he  never  departed  from 
a  habit.  When  she  finally  did  catch  sight  of  his 
bland,  fair  face  she  was  so  nervous  that  she 
dropped  the  box  of  paper  in  her  hand  and 
fumbled  ridiculously  in  picking  it  up.  Tears 
blinded  her  eyes.  She  couldn't  bear  to  look  at 
him,  lest  she  should  break  down  for  sheer  joy 
in  seeing  him  again.  She  felt  him  hesitate 
before  asking  for  his  Murads — he  always  got 
Murads — and  knew  that  he  had  seen  her.  With 
an  effort  she  looked  up. 

"Hello,"  she  said,  chokingly. 


WHITHER  219 

Cornell  was  plainly  overjoyed  to  see  her.  He 
hurried  to  her  side. 

"Why — why — Zoe "  he  blurted  out,  em- 
barrassed. 

"It  isn't  true — it  isn't  true,"  Zoe  whispered. 

Cornell  flushed. 

"I  guessed  it  wasn't  true,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"Everybody  always  gossips.  Always  making 
trouble  and  everything.  Only — only  I  thought 
maybe  you'd  been  fooling  with  me  as  a  sort  of 
blind  for  people.    I  thought  that  for  a  while." 

"Oh,  how  could  you?  I  couldn't  bear  to  have 
you  think  that,"  agonized  Zoe.    "Oh,  dear." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes  again,  and  she  looked 
away  quickly.  In  the  mirrored  walls  she  saw 
herself  a  dark,  olive-skinned,  strangely  pretty 
girl,  with  dark,  tragic  eyes.  She  forgot  to  explain 
why  she  was  in  that  store,  or  to  make  some 
apology  to  the  waiting  saleslady,  but  permitted 
Bill  to  lead  her  out  of  the  store  and  down  toward 
Fourth  Avenue. 

"That  woman  was  staring  so.  Are  you  going 
up  this  way?"  He  was  guiding  her  up  Fourth 
Avenue  now  and  Zoe  made  no  demur.  She  was 
only  conscious  of  the  heavenly  touch  of  his  big, 
strong  hand  on  her  arm.  Afterwards  she  blushed 
at  the  obviousness  of  her  actions  on  that  day. 
If  she  had  only  thought  to  give  some  reason  for 
her  being  in  that  neighborhood!  But  she  didn't 
and  Bill  seemed  to  take  it  quite  as  a  matter  of 
course. 


220  WHITHER 

They  did  not  speak  for  three  or  four  blocks, 
but  as  they  came  under  the  great  black  shadow 
of  Madison  Square  Gardens,  he  pressed  her 
arm  gently. 

"I  did  miss  you,"  he  said,  simply,  and  Zoe 
half  turned. 

"Oh,  did  you?"  she  said,  gratefully,  catching 
her  breath.  He  slipped  his  arm  around  her  and 
bent  down  and  kissed  her.  He  kept  his  arm 
around  her  and  then,  at  the  corner,  he  per- 
emptorily hailed  a  taxicab. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  exclaimed  Zoe,  hesitating  as 
he  waited  for  her  to  get  in,  "I  didn't  want  to 
get  a  taxi." 

"Why?"  he  said,  laughing,  and  gently  lifted 
her  inside. 

"Because — oh,  I  don't  know — because  I  knew 
you  would,"  Zoe  answered,  plaintively.  It  was 
hard  to  explain  why  she  wanted  this  man  to 
avoid  the  bromidic  business  of  taking  a  taxicab 
as  soon  as  he  conceived  a  desire  to  kiss  his  lady. 
It  was  somehow  so  efficient  and  downright.  And 
when  you're  in  love,  you  prefer  wandering  down 
dark  streets  and  sneaking  tiny  kisses  on  shadowy 
corners,  getting  agonizing  thrills  from  the  touch 
of  the  other's  hand  before  the  unknowing  world. 
Still,  she  did  want  him  to  kiss  her.  And  if  he 
selected  a  taxicab  for  the  setting,  well — a  taxi- 
cab  let  it  be. 

"Well,  then,"  comfortably  commented  Bill, 
and  leaned  forward  to  call  to  the  driver,  "through 


WHITHER  221 

the  park  and  across  to  Eighty-third  and  River- 
side." 

It  was  a  delirious  ride.  She  sat  in  Bill's  arms, 
his  warm,  frank,  masculine  kisses  on  her  lips. 
When  she  finally  reached  the  house  she  had 
forgotten  everything  in  the  world  but  him. 

"When — when  can  I  see  you  again?"  asked 
Bill,  holding  both  her  hands.  He  was  flushed 
and  startled  looking,  as  if  he  were  amazed  at 
himself  for  losing  his  jaunty  self-possession. 

"Whenever  you  like,"  dreamily  answered  Zoe. 

"Well — this  is  Tuesday.  I'm  engaged  Wed- 
nesday and  Thursday.     Shall  we  say  Friday?" 

Zoe  was  roused  to  a  flare  of  wounded  pride, 
then.  After  this  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of 
a  day  slipping  by  without  seeing  him  but  he — 
he  deliberately  put  their  next  appointment  three 
whole  days  off.  Zoe's  tiny  flare  died  down  when 
she  looked  at  his  mouth  again.  Such  a  strong, 
resolute,  adorable  mouth. 

"Friday,  then,"  she  murmured,  and  floated, 
star-eyed,  into  the  house. 

On  Thursday  morning  Zoe  was  called  to  the 
telephone  at  Mrs.  Home's  and  heard  Bill's  agree- 
able voice  on  the  wire. 

"You  know,  Zoe,"  it  began,  rather  awkwardly, 
"I  find  I  made  a  slip  about  our  date.  Friday 
I'm  supposed  to  have  dinner  with  my  aunt  on 
Long  Island.     How  about  Saturday,  instead?" 

Zoe  felt  a  pang  of  desolation.    He  didn't  love 


222  WHITHER 

her  at  all.  He  was  making  excuses.  She  ought 
to  say,  "Don't  bother.  We'll  just  call  it  off."  Or 
the  cutting  thing  to  do  would  be  to  say,  casually, 
"Why  no,  Bill,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  manage  Satur- 
day. I'll  be  busy  over  the  week-end  and  Mon- 
day and — well,  how  about  making  it  a  week  from 
Saturday?" 

That  was  the  technically  correct  thing  to  do, 
according  to  the  girls'  code.  It  showed  how 
independent  one  was  of  any  one  man.  But  love 
disarmed  a  woman  and  all  Zoe  could  say  was, 
weakly,  "Very  well,  Saturday."  She  hung  up 
the  receiver,  disgusted  with  herself  and  sick  with 
disappointment  over  his  apparent  lack  of  eager- 
ness to  see  her  again.  Why,  no  matter  what  he 
had  planned  to  do,  after  that  night  with  her  he 
should  have  dismissed  everything  for  her — that 
is,  if  he  truly  loved  her.  Zoe  tried  to  think  of  a 
reason  for  his  procrastination  that  would  not 
hurt  her  pride  so  much.  He  did  like  her.  He 
had  kissed  her.  He  had  been  shy  and  embar- 
rassed around  her,  the  way  men  of  his  type  are 
when  they  love  some  one.  But  Zoe  hated  the 
will-power  that  was  stronger  than  her  charm. 
Love,  true  love,  made  a  man  forget  everything, 
fling  everything  to  the  winds.  Love  did  not 
equivocate  with  the  beloved.  Postponements 
had  no  place  in  love.  Not,  at  least,  in  Zoe's  con- 
ception of  love. 

"I'll  bet  he's  the  kind  that  would  never  for- 
get himself  long  enough  to  kiss  his  wife  in  pub- 


WHITHER  223 

lie,  no  matter  how  long  he'd  been  away,"  Zoe 
said  to  herself,  grimly. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  want  to  see  her  again  too 
soon  for  fear  she  would  take  him  for  granted 
and  begin  making  a  hope-chest.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  this  venture  was  as  near  the  truth  as  Zoe 
ever  came,  for  Bill  Cornell  was  doing  his  mascu- 
line best  to  fight  the  queer  fascination  which 
Zoe  Bourne  had  for  him.  Not  being  an  ana- 
lytical person,  he  could  not  analyze  her  to  shreds 
and  free  himself  of  her  witchery.  He  only  felt 
troubled  and  afraid.  He  was  afraid  if  he  kissed 
her  again  he  would  commit  himself  to  something. 
He  might — he  might  even  ask  her  to  marry  him, 
and  Bill  didn't  want  to  be  swept  into  anything 
like  that  without  any  preparation.  She  was  so 
demure,  for  all  her  vividness,  when  one  looked 
at  her.  As  if  nothing  disturbed  her  very  much. 
And  then  to  feel  her  lips — warm,  intoxicating, 
compelling.    Bill  decided  on  discretion. 

Even  if  she  had  been  fully  aware  of  this,  Zoe 
would  have  been  wounded  that  he  had  enough 
control  left  to  be  able  to  resist  coming  to  her.  It 
was  hard  to  understand  how  men  could  be  so 
different  from  women  in  love.  She  wished  she 
could  hate  him,  so  that  she  could  detach  herself 
from  him  long  enough  to  "work  on  him"  as 
Fania  crudely  put  it.  She  had  confided  in  part 
to  Julie  Saturday  night  as  she  was  getting 
dressed  for  Bill,  but  Julie  was  not  sympathetic. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  you  can  care  enough 


224  WHITHER 

for  anybody  to  make  yourself  miserable  over 
him,"  said  Julie,  discontentedly.  "Look  at  me, 
now,  absolutely  without  a  man  for  the  first  time 
in  years  and  I  feel  like  a  squeezed  sponge — flat 
and  vapid.  This  business  of  being  Fleurice's 
prize  model  is  all  right  so  far  as  the  prospects 
go — I  wouldn't  stay  a  minute  if  she  hadn't 
promised  to  send  me  to  Paris  in  May — but  you 
never  meet  any  men.  Except,  of  course,  that 
old  Wagenstein.  It's  much  nicer  to  be  in  love, 
even  when  it's  painful,  than  high  and  dry  and 
safe  from  storms,  like  I  am." 

Zoe  was  silent.  She  was  not  going  to  insist  on 
Julie's  sympathy,  but  it  was  cruel  of  Julie  to  act 
as  if  being  in  love  with  Bill  was  just  a  little  flare 
and  as  if  there  would  be  a  lot  more  men  she 
would  feel  just  the  same  way  about.  She,  at 
least,  wasn't  one  of  those  will-o'-the-wisps. 

Maisie  bobbed  her  head  in  the  room  for  an 
instant,  bursting  with  news. 

"The  Kanes  have  got  a  divorce,"  she  reported, 
exuberantly,  "and  your  dear  Christopher  is  out 
West  getting  connected  with  some  firm  that  he's 
to  represent  in  London.    Nice?" 

"What?"  Zoe  exclaimed,  feeling  suddenly  very 
lonely.    Christopher  Kane  in  London? 

"Yes,  and  old  Bergman  is  mad  as  hops  all  the 
time  nowadays,"  went  on  Maisie,  "and  so  is 
Bill  Cornell." 

"Wonder  why  he's  cross?"  speculated  Zoe. 

Maisie  looked  wise. 


WHITHER  225 

"And  Blanche  What's'ername  is  cross,  too. 
She  does  her  best  but  she  can't  seem  to  get  a  rise 
out  of  Bill.  So  does  Peggy.  I  guess  he  did  take 
Peggy  out  to  lunch  Wednesday  but " 

"When?"  flared  Zoe. 

"Wednesday,"  repeated  Maisie,  in  surprise, 
"why?" 

Zoe  was  silent.  He  had  taken  Peggy  out  to 
lunch  the  very  day  after  he  had  kissed  her! 
That  was  all  Zoe  Bourne  meant  to  him.  She 
was  simply  a  girl  whom  he  had  casually  kissed. 
That  was  all  romance  meant  to  Bill  Cornell.  A 
kiss  or  two  in  a  taxicab  and  the  next  day  he 
takes  another  girl  out  to  lunch.  Love?  He 
couldn't  love  her  at  all. 

"Good  Lord,  Zoe,"  exclaimed  Julie,  sharply,  as 
Zoe  slumped  in  her  chair,  "you  act  as  if  you'd 
never  been  in  love  before." 

"I  haven't." 

"Well,  even  if  you  haven't,  men  want  girls  to 
have  control.  This  sniffling  Victorian  stuff 
doesn't  go  with  men  nowadays  and  you're  clever 
enough  to  know  it.  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Zoe, 
for  being  such  a  little  idiot  over  anybody.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  wouldn't  be  all  over  it  next  week 
and  in  love  with  somebody  else — your  Mr.  Kane, 
for  instance — because  you  know  you  will." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Zoe,  pathetically.  "What 
I  feel  next  week  or  next  year  doesn't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  way  I  feel  tonight.  And  I 
don't  like  being  in  love.     It  hurts  too  much. 


226  WHITHER 

I'm  going  to — to,"  she  made  an  effort  to  sound 
businesslike,  "get  absorbed  in  a  career  and 
never — never — never  love  anybody." 

"That's  what  the  really  successful  women  do, 
old  dear,"  Maisie  said,  slapping  her  on  the  back 
boisterously.  "Give  the  gents  the  berry  every 
time  and  stick  to  their  knitting.  Decorate  your 
sofa  with  'em  when  you  fancy  it,  but  don't  let 
'em  cramp  your  line.  Use  their  fat  old  necks  as 
stepladders  and  when  you  get  to  the  top,  kick 
out  and  fly.  After  you've  arrived  you  can  fall 
in  love,  but  not  before  or  you  never  will  arrive. 
No  kidding." 

"Hear,  hear,"  Julie  applauded  mildly  and  Zoe 
laughed,  in  spite  of  herself.  "Anyway  Zoe 
doesn't  love  Bill  any  more  than  anybody  ever 
loves  anybody." 

"You  don't  know,"  Zoe  retorted,  angrily. 

Julie  shrugged,  daintily. 

"I'm  being  nasty  about  it  because  I  don't  want 
you  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself  over  anybody. 
You're  just  in  the  mood  to  go  down  and  throw 
yourself  on  his  chest  and  give  yourself  away. 
You  ought  to  have  him  trotting  after  you  and 
eating  out  of  your  hand  instead  of  your  being  the 
little  poodle." 

"You  don't  care  whether  he  loves  me  or  not," 
said  Zoe,  shaking  her  head,  mournfully. 

"I  do,"  Julie  answered,  impatiently,  "I  want 
you  to  get  engaged  to  him.  Of  course  the  only 
way  to  know  whether  you  really  want  a  man 


WHITHER  227 

or  not  is  to  marry  him,  but  the  next  best  way- 
is  to  get  engaged  to  him.  You  never  know  what 
you  don't  want  until  you've  had  it.  And  after 
you've  eliminated  a  lot  of  things  that  way  you'll 
come  down  to  the  thing  you  really  do  want." 

Julie  went  out  of  the  door  and  slammed  it 
behind  her. 

Zoe  sat  waiting  for  Bill  to  call  for  her.  He 
said  they  might  go  to  a  theater.  She  wanted, 
really,  to  talk  to  him  somewhere  instead,  but 
there  was  no  place  to  go,  and,  besides,  they 
seemed  such  miles  apart  when  they  talked  to- 
gether. Funny.  She  had  been  in  Bill's  arms 
but  she  did  not  know  him  half  as  well  as  she 
did  Christopher  Kane  or  even  Allan  Myers. 
She  heard,  then,  the  bell  announcing  his  arrival 
and,  with  a  final  dab  of  powder,  rushed  down 
the  steps  to  meet  him. 

He  was  standing  by  the  little  house  switch- 
board, his  back  to  the  staircase,  and  Zoe  came 
up  behind  him. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  there,"  he  exclaimed, 
carefully  guarding  the  surprised  pleasure  in  his 
eyes.  Why  was  he  always  so  afraid  she  would 
see  that  he  liked  her?  Zoe  was  irritated  at  his 
discretion.  "Where  shall  we  go?  Want  to  see 
'East  is  West'?" 

Zoe,  in  the  excitement  of  seeing  him  again, 
forgot  that  he  had  lunched  with  another  girl  the 
very  day  after  he  had  made  love  to  her.  Indeed 
she  forgot  that  she  had  seen  'East  is  West'  with 


228  WHITHER 

Fania  only  a  few  weeks  before,  and  had  not  been 
so  taken  with  it  that  she  wanted  to  see  it  more 
than  once.  She  even  sat  through  part  of  the 
first  act,  so  blissfully  oblivious  of  everything  but 
her  escort  that  she  did  not  recognize  the  play. 

On  his  part,  Bill  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
stage.  He  laughed  whole-heartedly  at  the 
spots  where  every  one  laughed,  and  vigorously 
applauded  the  bits  that  every  one  else  applauded. 

"Great  play,"  he  beamed  at  Zoe. 

Zoe  had  not  fancied  this  conventional  Broad- 
way table  d'hote  fare  at  all.  She  cast  a  side 
glance  at  Bill.  Yes,  he  actually  was  enjoying  the 
thing!  He  chuckled  at  "Cholly  Young"  and  at 
Miss  Bainter's  shimmying. 

"You  know  there's  nothing  does  you  more 
good  than  a  really  good  play,"  Bill  said  in  a  low 
aside.  "You  ought  to  take  more  interest  in  the 
theater,  Zoe.  But  then,  you  women  never  think 
of  anything  but  fussing." 

Zoe  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared  at  him,  in- 
credulously. Ought  to  take  more  interest  in  the 
theater?  Why,  he  had  spoken  as  if  he  con- 
sidered her  a  moron  like  Peggy  or  Blanche  or 
the  rest  of  the  girls  he  knew!  Never  thought  of 
anything  but  fussing !  A  slow  indignation  swept 
over  her. 

"I  expect  to  write  plays,"  she  said,  coldly.  "I 
thought  you  knew." 

"Is  that  so?"  Bill's  interest  in  her  artistic 
ambitions  was  so  perfunctory  that  Zoe  was  in- 


WHITHER  229 

furiated.  She  remembered  now  that  he  had  not 
even  asked  if  she  had  found  a  new  job.  He 
wasn't  interested  in  what  women  thought  about 
or  what  they  did,  except  as  it  affected  his  life. 

"Naturally  I've  always  been  interested  in  the 
theater,"  Zoe  pursued.  It  was  amazing  how 
little  this  man  knew  her.  He  didn't  care  what 
she  was  interested  in,  so  long  as  she  was  good 
looking  enough.  He  thought  he  had  brains 
enough  for  them  both — whereas  he  wasn't  half 
as  intelligent  as  she  was — not  half — and  she 
didn't  dare  show  it  or  he  would  hate  her! 

"Knew  you'd  like  it,"  Bill  said,  comfortably. 
"Playing  to  crowded  houses  every  night.  Shows 
it's  pretty  good." 

"I  don't  see  that  it  shows  a  thing/'  Zoe  said, 
contrarily.  "Most  people  aren't  intelligent 
enough  to  know  whether  a  play's  good  or  bad. 
Their  presence  doesn't  prove  anything.  Some 
of  the  best  plays  have  empty  houses  night  after 
night." 

She  knew  she  was  playing  the  wrong  cards  to 
win  this  man,  but  if  she  had  to  pretend  to  be  a 
moron  in  order  to  have  him  love  her,  then  she 
didn't  care  whether  he  loved  her  or  not.  She 
simply  was  not  going  to  be  patronized  like  that 
— "ought  to  be  interested  in  the  theater" — when 
she  was  planning  to  spend  her  whole  future 
writing  for  it!  Why  any  one  who  was  worth  her 
love  would  have  been  sufficiently  interested  to 
keep  her  secret  goal  in  his  mind.    He  acted  as 


230  WHITHER 

if  it  was  of  no  importance — the  very  thing  that 
had  brought  her  to  New  York- 
There  is  something  about  seeing  one's  beloved 
in  a  crowd  which  enables  one  to  see  for  a  moment 
quite  clearly  his  or  her  imperfections.  It  is  that 
which  accounts  for  the  involuntary  criticisms 
wives  and  husbands  make  of  each  other  in  public. 
Now  Zoe,  seeing  Cornell  not  as  a  glorious,  god- 
like person,  but  only  as  a  blond  young  man  in 
a  crowded  theater,  laughing  at  the  same  things 
that  every  other  young  man  there  was  laughing 
at,  and  missing  the  same  things  that  every  other 
young  man  missed,  wondered,  quite  detachedly, 
how  it  would  be  to  go  through  life  with  him.  He 
never  would  attempt  to  sympathize  with  her 
ambitions.  To  hold  his  love  she  would  be 
obliged  to  feed  his  vanity  by  looking  up  to  him. 
If  she  revealed  an  atom  of  intellect  he  would 
hate  her. 

"Mind  if  I  go  out  and  smoke  during  inter- 
mission?" Zoe  was  recalled  to  the  theater  by 
Bill's  gentle  pressure  on  her  arm.  Of  course  he 
would  go  and  smoke.  No  matter  what  the 
occasion  might  be  he  would  do  the  conventional 
thing,  Zoe  thought,  with  a  certain  resignation. 
She  looked  around  the  theater  after  he  left, 
and,  for  a  moment,  she  thought  she  saw  Kane, 
and  was  stricken  with  shame  at  having  him  see 
her  with  such  an  inferior  person  as  Bill  Cornell. 
It  wasn't  Kane,  however,  and  she  was  immensely 
relieved.    Bill  sat  down  then,  for  the  third  act. 


WHITHER  231 

"Have  you  seen  the  Follies  this  year?"  he 
asked  her.  "They're  awfully  good.  Of  course 
it's  nothing  but  musical  comedy,  but  a  man  has 
to  have  a  little  relaxation  once  in  a  while.  Most 
of  the  time,  though,  I  like  a  good,  solid  little 
play  like  this,  or  like  'Friendly  Enemies'  last 
year,  you  remember.  Gives  you  something  to 
think  about." 

"What?"  asked  Zoe. 

"What?"  Bill  was  taken  aback.  "Why,  why 
— well,  take  these  international  marriages  and — 
and  white  slave  trade  and — and  things  a  person 
ought  to  give  a  lot  more  thought  to.  I  like  a 
good  play.    I  like  good  music,  too." 

"You  do?"  asked  Zoe,  apprehensively. 

"Sure,  I  do,"  Bill  answered,  with  pride  in  his 
varied  interests,  "all  kinds.  Not  that  I  like 
opera,  but  I  guess  if  the  truth  were  known  not 
many  people  do." 

"But — 'Tristan!'  "  Zoe  exclaimed,  remember- 
ing one  gorgeous  evening  at  the  Metropolitan 
in  Enna's  seat. 

"Don't  care  about  it,"  Bill  shook  his  head 
with  an  air  of  finality.  "There's  only  one  opera 
that  I  like  and  that's " 

"  'II  Trovatore?'  "  Zoe  asked,  fearfully. 

"How  did  you  know?"  beamed  Bill. 

"I  could  guess,"  answered  Zoe,  faintly. 

The  curtain  went  up  and  Zoe  sat,  depressed, 
through  the  last  act.  Beside  her  sat  a  healthy, 
good  looking,  but  very  stupid  young  man. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

On  Monday  morning  Margot  came  in  with 
the  good  news  that  the  theatrical  agency  had 
left  a  message  for  them  to  report  at  Fort  Lee 
to  do  extra  work  in  a  moving  picture.  They 
spent  some  time  collecting  evening  clothes  stipu- 
lated for  the  picture.  Zoe  was  thrilled.  Sup- 
posing the  director  picked  her  out  as  a  type  and 
she  became  a  great  motion  picture  actress ! 

"I'd  like  to  know  how  they  think  we  can  get 
there  by  twelve  when  they  didn't  notify  us  till 
ten,"  grumbled  Margot,  when  they  finally  had 
scrambled  aboard  the  Fort  Lee  ferry,  their 
costumes  in  Julie's  big  suitcase. 

"Still,  it's  seven  dollars  a  day,"  said  Zoe, 
hopefully.  "Even  if  we  do  have  to  pay  the 
agent  a  commission,  it  means  something." 

"Cheap  stuff,"  muttered  Margot. 

Once  on  the  Jersey  shore,  Margot,  who  had 
extra-ed  once  before,  hurried  Zoe  to  a  street 
car  which  took  them  through  three  or  four  miles 
of  country  until  they  finally  reached  Fort  Lee. 
Margot  was  pessimistic,  but  Zoe  was  elated,  sure 
that  this  was  a  great  moment  in  her  life.  At  the 
studio,  a  boy  directed  them  to  a  dressing  room 
where  they  hurried  into  their  evening  clothes — 
Zoe  wearing  Rowena  Shay's  best  pink  tulle.    A 

232 


WHITHER  233 

few  other  belated  extras  were  getting  dressed, 
too,  and  Zoe  saw  that  they  were  making  up  with 
the  most  scrupulous  care.  Margot  boldly  asked 
one  of  them  to  loan  her  her  make-up  box. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  woman,  ungraciously, 
shoving  her  box  toward  Margot.  Margot  winked 
at  Zoe  and  proceeded  to  mascara  her  eyes,  and 
put  queer  looking  powder  on  her  face.  Zoe 
surreptitiously  used  the  same  box. 

"Don't  rouge,"  languidly  said  one  of  the  other 
women,  "Mr.  Bush  will  send  you  back.  It  takes 
black,  you  know." 

The  boy  came  to  the  door,  shouting  that  Mr. 
Bush  wanted  everybody  on  the  set  right  away. 
As  they  started  up  the  stairs,  they  heard  a  full 
orchestra  begin  a  tantalizing  fox  trot,  and  Zoe 
looked  at  Margot  in  surprise.  Then  they  came 
into  a  huge  studio,  filled  with  tables  at  which 
sat  men  and  women  in  evening  dress  of  varying 
modes,  their  faces  purple  and  saffron  under  the 
glare  of  the  great  lights  above  them.  Indeed, 
except  for  the  discarded  props  at  one  end  of  the 
room,  the  place  looked  like  an  enormous  cabaret 
grill  room. 

"All  right,  George,"  howled  a  hoarse  voice 
through  a  megaphone.  Zoe  saw  a  short  man 
with  a  massive  head  and  tangled  gray  hair  stand- 
ing on  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  At 
his  words  the  music  stopped.  The  lights  were 
replaced  by  other  lights  under  which  the  people 
resumed  their  normal  complexions.     "You  two 


234  WHITHER 

girls — now — sit  down  there  at  that  table.  Yes, 
you.  You're  late  enough.  Where  you  from 
— Rogers?" 

Margot  called  out,  in  answer,  the  name  of 
their  agent,  and  they  sat  down  at  a  table  with 
a  pallid,  anemic  looking,  young  juvenile. 

"Big  cabaret  scene,"  he  said.  "You're  lucky 
in  not  coming  from  Rogers.  He  made  us  be  here 
at  eight  this  morning  and  here  it  is  twelve- 
thirty  and  they  haven't  done  a  thing  yet  but 
shout  around.  I'll  bet  they  keep  us  here  till 
midnight,  too,  but  they  won't  keep  me,  I'll  tell 
you." 

"Why?"  asked  Margot,  idly. 

"I  have  to  be  at  the  Winter  Garden  at  seven- 
thirty  tonight,"  elucidated  the  young  man,  fixing 
his  humorless  gray  eyes  on  Zoe,  "I'm  in  the 
chorus  and  I  told  Mr.  Rogers  that  I  had  to 
leave  early.  But  they'll  raise  a  fuss,  anyway. 
You  see.    You  two  are  in  chorus,  aren't  you?" 

"No,"  briefly  answered  Margot. 

Zoe  fingered  a  menu  card  from  Churchill's 
and  looked  about.  There  was  something  faintly 
nauseating  about  the  studio  with  its  queer  light, 
which  gave  a  decadent  pallor  to  all  the  people. 
They  were  a  strange,  morbid  looking  lot,  too — 
women  with  dyed  hair,  smooth  faces  and 
wrinkled  necks — huge-bosomed,  slender-calved 
women  with  querulous,  tinkly  voices.  The  men 
were  like  their  own  companion,  Zoe  thought — 
pale-eyed,  weak-mouthed,  limp   and   repulsive 


WHITHER  235 

creatures.  Here  was  an  imitation  Mary  Pickford, 
Dorothy  Gish  or  Douglas  Fairbanks  from  among 
the  younger  types.  At  a  table  near  by  two  men 
sat  with  their  arms  locked  about  each  other, 
fatuously  grinning.  Zoe  felt  as  if  she  had  entered 
a  half-world  remote  from  her  own  life  and  it 
sickened  her  oddly.  Margot  seemed  to  be  mildly 
entertained  by  it  and  had  quite  recovered  from 
her  bad  spirits. 

"Funny  to  think  they  have  that  orchestra  just 
to  make  us  feel  in  a  real  cabaret  mood,"  she 
whispered  to  Zoe.  "Do  you  know,  I  just  heard 
somebody  say  that  Paige  Fothergil  and  Mary 
Marigold  are  to  play  the  leads  in  this?  They're 
down  at  that  table  near  the  orchestra.  She's 
really  very  pretty,  isn't  she?" 

The  man  with  the  grisly  hair  and  the  mega- 
phone had  stepped  down  from  his  platform  and 
was  making  his  way  to  the  table  that  Margot 
had  pointed  out  as  the  leading  one.  As  he 
passed  their  table  the  limp  juvenile  plucked  his 
sleeve. 

"Mr.  Bush,  don't  forget  I  have  to  leave  at 
seven  tonight  in  order  to  get  to  my  theater.  Last 
time  I  had  to  leave  early  you  made  a  fuss  and 
Rogers  gave  me  an  awful  razzing,  but  I  explained 
to  Mr.  Lovell " 

"That's  all  right,  Freddie,"  said  Bush, 
absently,  and  then  stood  for  an  instant  looking 
over  the  room.  He  broke  out  a  minute  later, 
irritatedly,  "But  you've  got  to  do  a  bit  here, 


236  WHITHER 

Freddie.  You've  got  the  only  dress  suit  in  the 
place  that's  been  made  since  the  ark.  Damn 
Rogers.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  touch  any  more 
of  his  gang  if  he  didn't  make  'em  dress  right. 
A  fashionable  cabaret.  Hell!  It  looks  just 
like  what  it  is — a  bunch  of  cheap  extras  in 
second-hand  clothes." 

He  signaled  the  orchestra  leader  and  then 
glanced  at  Zoe  and  Margot.  He  put  his  hand 
on  Margot's  shoulder  and  spoke  to  the  one  man 
who  had  a  correct  evening  suit.  "Now,  Fred- 
die, you  and  this  little  girl  get  up  and  dance 
when  the  fox  trot  begins.  Then  Mr.  Fothergil 
and  Miss  Marigold  will  get  up.  You" —  he 
spoke  to  Margot,  "nod  and  smile  to  Mr.  Fother- 
gil, Miss " 

"Margot.    Margot  Wai "  began  Margot, 

but  the  director  cut  her  short. 

"All  right,  Margot.  You  smile  over  your 
shoulder  to  Fothergil  as  you  dance,  sort  of  flirt- 
ing. See?  Then  Miss  Marigold  catches  you 
at  it.  They've  just  been  quarreling.  Hey, 
Pat,  what's  the  matter  with  that  orchestra  light- 
ing? I  want  those  palms  to  show,  not  stuck 
back  of  the  piano,  there.  And  then  Miss  Mari- 
gold glares  at  you,  see,  and  you,  Miss oh, 

yes,  Margot — you  duck  behind  your  partner's 
shoulder.    See?" 

"But — what ?"     Margot  was  in  a  panic 

but  the  director  had  moved  on,  yelling  orders 
as  he  went. 


WHITHER  237 

"She  got  a  bit,  did  you  hear  that?"  came  in 
envious  whispers  from  all  sides  and  Zoe  had  a 
vague  realization  that  getting  "bits,"  such  as 
the  one  assigned  to  Margot,  was  the  great  goal 
of  the  extras. 

"What  shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do?"  said 
Margot  in  a  frightened  whisper  to  Zoe,  and 
Zoe  confessed  that  she  herself  would  be  scared 
to  death  at  the  distinction  of  winning  a  "bit." 

"He  won't  tell  us  any  more,"  said  Freddie, 
gloomily.  "You  just  have  to  get  up  and  then 
he  bawls  you  out." 

From  the  other  tables  Zoe  caught  a  babel  of 
conversation 

"Yes,  lots  of  people  think  I  look  just  like 
June  Caprice,  but  I  don't  know.  Of  course  it 
was  my  eyes  that  made  me  go  into  the  pictures 
in  the  first  place.  Every  one  said  they  were  so 
unusual." 

And  again 

"I  had  an  offer  to  go  to  Hollywood — two 
hundred  a  week — but  you  know  how  Papa  is. 
He  just  wouldn't  hear  of  it." 

Zoe  had  a  great  desire  to  share  her  amuse- 
ment in  this  colossal  shamming  with  some  one 
who  would  see  it  as  she  saw  it — Christopher 
Kane,  for  instance. 

"Into  the  picture!"  the  megaphonic  order 
came,  and  some  waiters  in  yellow  paper  aprons 
hurried  among  the  tables  to  take  imaginary 
orders.    The  orchestra  began  to  play. 


238  WHITHER 

"Yellow  takes  white,  you  know,"  Freddie 
explained  to  them. 

At  the  next  table  a  fat  man  called  for  four 
more  Martinis  and  the  waiter  rushed  away  to 
return  with  a  tray  and  four  pink  glasses.  Zoe 
marveled  at  the  miraculous  change  from  the 
listless  conversation  of  a  minute  ago  to  the  gay 
cabaret  illusion.  Another  man,  a  rather  elderly, 
ordinary  looking  person,  sat  down  at  their  table. 
Margot,  gasping,  got  up  and  followed  her  languid 
escort  to  the  dance  circle.  Zoe  saw  Fothergil 
and  Miss  Marigold  get  up  to  dance,  and  saw 
Margot's  roguish  nod  to  the  former.  She  was 
amused  at  the  round-eyed  awe  in  Margot's  face 
when  she  was  caught  in  her  flirting  by  the  screen 
bride  of  Mr.  Fothergil  and  the  funny  way  she 
ducked  behind  Freddie's  shoulder. 

"Not  bad,  that  bit,"  approved  Zoe's  present 
dinner  companion. 

Zoe  was  increasingly  amazed  at  the  ease  with 
which  Margot  reproduced  her  expression  for  the 
ten  or  twelve  times  that  the  scene  was  repeated. 
Fothergil  was  scolded  violently,  but  Bush 
shouted  from  his  throne  at  the  back  of  the 
room,  "Good  girl,  Margot,"  to  the  envy  of  the 
other  three  hundred  and  forty-nine  extras. 
Zoe  felt  herself  getting  drowsier  and  drowsier 
under  the  artificial  glare  and  the  studio  was  cold 
to  her  decollete  shoulders.  She  wanted  to  go 
home,  but  her  partner  told  her  that  she  would 
have  to  stick  it  out  now.    He  told  her  that  he  was 


WHITHER  239 

an  old  trouper,  himself,  "resting  now,  as  they 
say." 

"It's  six  now,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"In  an  hour  they'll  let  us  go  down  to  the  lunch 
room  and  get  a  bite  to  eat,  and  then  they'll 
probably  keep  us  here  for  the  night.  They  often 
do,  you  know." 

Zoe  thought  to  herself  that  her  seven  dollars 
was  to  be  really  earned  at  any  rate. 

"Do  we  pay  for  our  own  dinner?"  Zoe  de- 
manded. 

"Sure,"  the  man  replied.  "Think  they  give 
us  anything  here?" 

Zoe  said  nothing.  She  was  hungry  and  she 
knew  Margot  must  be,  for  they  had  had  nothing 
to  eat  since  breakfast.  And  Margot  was  as  poor 
as  she  was,  for  they  had  only  brought  enough 
money  to  pay  their  fare  home.  It  was  plain  that 
they  would  have  to  go  without  dinner,  and  then 
if  the  thing  lasted  all  night,  as  this  trouper  pre- 
dicted— and  he  ought  to  know 

Zoe  and  Margot  sat  hungrily  in  the  dressing 
room  when  Bush  gave  the  order  to  file  down  to 
the  lunch  room  for  dinner. 

"I'm  just  famished,"  wailed  Margot. 

"And  think  of  that  cold  ride  home  on  the 
ferry  boat  with  nothing  to  eat,"  shuddered  Zoe. 
"I  hope  we  don't  ever  have  to  see  this  awful 
place  again." 

"I  shouldn't  mind,"  said  Margot.  "Freddie — 
you  know  who  I  mean — said  I  might  get  as  high 


240  WHITHER 

as  twenty  dollars  a  day  for  that  bit  I  did.  In 
that  case  I  can  afford  to  eat  enough  from  now 
on  to  stand  most  anything." 

It  was  while  the  crowd  was  in  the  lunch  room 
that  Zoe  saw  Al  Schuler.  He  was  in  evening 
dress  with  a  great  cloak  thrown  over  his  arm 
and  he  was  standing  in  the  doorway  looking  for 
some  one.  Catching  sight  of  the  electrician,  he 
called  out,  crisply,  "Where's  Bush?" 

"Downstairs,  Mr.  Schuler."  The  electrician 
hurried  to  his  side,  deferentially. 

Zoe  looked  away  quickly  after  her  first  stare. 
Of  course  he  wouldn't  recognize  her  from  that 
drunken  dinner  in  the  Village.  She  remembered 
now  that  he  had  film  interests  and — why,  of 
course — he  owned  the  Peerless  Studios  in  which 
they  were  now  working.  She  heard  him  ask  for 
Miss  Marigold.  Then,  unexpectedly,  her  eyes 
met  his  and  his  face  lit  up  in  recognition.  He 
came  toward  her,  Zoe  blushing  furiously  all  the 
while. 

"If  it  isn't  my  little  Christmas  angel,"  he 
exclaimed,  taking  her  hand  in  his  soft,  perfumed 
one.  "I  never  expected  to  find  you  again.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  in  pictures?" 

"I  wasn't  then,"  Zoe  answered,  noting,  a  little 
amusedly,  the  contrast  between  her  remembrance 
of  him  and  the  foppishly  groomed  gentleman  of 
tonight,  "I'm  just  an  extra." 

"I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  career  as  an  extra," 
Schuler  said,  not  releasing  her  hand,  his  gaze 


WHITHER  241 

traveling  appreciatively  from  her  young  face 
to  her  ankles,  "but  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you 
to  cut  it  and  run  out  with  me.  I  just  drove  over 
from  town.  Thought  I'd  drop  in  and  see  how 
things  were,  then  run  on  to  the  Club  for  the 
night.  How  about  dashing  off  for  a  ride  and 
supper?    I'll  fix  it  with  Bush." 

"No,  you  see  I'm  with  a  friend,"  Zoe  stam- 
mered, indicating  Margot,  "and  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly." 

Schuler's  pinkly  massaged  face  betrayed 
chagrin.  He  produced  a  small  gold  pencil  and 
cardcase  from  his  pocket  and  held  up  the  pencil, 
interrogatively. 

"Another  time?  How  can  I  reach  you? 
Perhaps  we  could  dine  together,  say — next 
Wednesday?" 

Zoe  hesitated.  Why?  Why  shouldn't  she 
have  a  little  excitement  in  her  life?  It  was  dull 
enough,  lately.  She  gave  her  address  in  a  low 
tone.  She  wasn't  sure  about  Wednesday,  but 
— perhaps. 

Al  vanished  downstairs  after  a  final  pressure 
of  her  hand  and  another  lingering  glance  at  her 
slim  shoulders  above  the  filmy  pink  tulle. 

"Who's  the  sugar  daddy?"  Margot  demanded. 

Zoe  answered  very  briefly,  a  little  ashamed  of 
herself  for  being  glad  he  had  remembered  her. 

In  half  an  hour  the  crowd  was  back  again  and 
once  more  the  orchestra  began  its  syncopated 
inspiration.     There  was  a  scene  between  the 


242  WHITHER 

hero  and  the  heroine,  during  which  the  crowd 
sat  watching  and  applauding  the  Japanese  acro- 
bats brought  to  the  studio  from  the  Palais 
Royale  to  lend  reality  to  the  cabaret  scene. 
After  the  many  wearying  repetitions,  punctu- 
ated by  long  waits  while  the  director  and  the 
chief  electrician  held  arguments  and  Miss  Mari- 
gold indulged  in  a  tantrum  because  Bush  criti- 
cized her  eyebrows,  the  director  finally  yelled 
that  the  day  was  finished.  He  marked  a  certain 
line  near  the  dance  arena  and  announced  that 
all  the  tables  on  the  left  side  of  that  line  were  to 
report  at  eight  in  the  morning. 

"But  it's  three  o'clock  now,"  some  one  said. 
Zoe  and  Margot,  who  were  weak  from  hunger 
and  fatigue,  exchanged  glances.  To  come  back 
to  that  place  in  five  more  hours? 

"And  there  isn't  any  ferry  till  four,"  wailed 
somebody  else. 

Zoe  prayed  that  their  table  might  be  exempt. 
She  would  not  dare  turn  down  the  extra  money 
if  their  table  actually  were  in  demand,  but  she 
felt  she  could  not  endure  that  stifling,  horribly 
unreal  atmosphere  again.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
their  table  was  out,  but  Bush  called  out: 

"Where's  Margot?" 

The  extras  enviously  pointed  out  Margot  and 
Bush  strode  toward  them. 

"You  ride  horseback?"  he  demanded.  Margot 
nodded. 

"Then  I  want  you  for  a  nicer  bit,  tomorrow. 


WHITHER  243 

You  won't  be  needed  in  this  set.  Wear  your 
riding  togs  and  have  a  crop.  It  will  be  just  you 
and  Miss  Marigold  and  Mr.  Fothergil.  Very 
good  little  piece  of  comedy,  too." 

Zoe  was  exhausted  and  so  was  Margot — too 
exhausted  to  appreciate  the  good  fortune  that 
was  making  her  detested  by  every  other  extra 
in  the  room.  As  they  started,  en  masse,  out 
of  the  studio,  some  one  cried  out,  "How  about 
double  time  for  overtime?  Hey,  Bush,  how 
about  it?" 

"Time  and  a  half,"  answered  Bush,  curtly. 

"Double  time — double  time "  the  crowd 

began  to  roar.  Bush  looked  them  over  with 
infinite  disgust.  They  began  surging  around 
him.  Zoe  and  Margot  heard  his  sharp  voice 
above  the  uproar. 

"Go  home,  I  tell  you.  Call  at  your  agent's 
tomorrow  and  get  your  damned  money.  Time 
and  a  half  for  overtime." 

"We  get  it  tomorrow?"  a  woman's  voice 
shrieked,  hopefully. 

Bush  nodded.  The  tumult  died.  Evidently 
time  and  a  half  paid  tomorrow  was  far  better 
than  double  time  paid  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

On  the  ferry  Margot  and  Zoe  huddled  to- 
gether, their  noses  purple  with  the  icy  morning 
wind  up  the  river  and  conscious  only  of  their 
tremendous  fatigue. 

"I've  never  been  on  a  horse  in  my  life,"  con- 
fessed Margot,  "but  I  can  wear  Fania's  habit 


244  WHITHER 

and  it's  stunning  enough  to  excuse  anything." 
Back  at  Mrs.  Home's  they  sneaked  down 
to  the  kitchen  and  found  a  basket  of  hot  rolls 
just  left  by  the  baker.  They  hastily  made  some 
tea  and  ate  before  Clematia  should  descend  on 
them.  They  went  upstairs  after  eating  and 
Zoe  sank  on  the  bed  and  mumbled  an  inarticu- 
late affirmative  to  Margot's  request  for  Julie's 
alarm  clock. 

"You  can  sleep,  but  I  have  to  be  up  in  an 
hour  and  a  half,"  whispered  Margot,  with  a 
wary  glance  at  Julie's  sleeping  figure.  Julie, 
her  white  arm  flung  over  her  golden  head,  look- 
ing like  a  sleeping  choir  boy,  stirred  then,  and 
Margot  hastily  went  out.  Zoe  heard  the  door 
close  softly  and  then  drifted  off  to  sleep.  After- 
wards, when  Margot's  name  was  emblazoned 
over  the  world  as  one  of  the  first  five  in  motion 
pictures,  Zoe  always  remembered  that  first  and 
only  venture  of  hers  in  the  screen  world. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Zoe  slept  all  through  that  day  and  that  night 
and  it  was  really  Friday  morning  before  she  felt 
completely  rested.  She  wanted  to  stay  in  bed 
then,  but  Julie  insisted  that  she  get  up  and  have 
breakfast  with  her. 

"You  ought  to  go  out  and  walk.  You  look 
ghastly,"  said  Julie.  "  Margot  looks  worse  than 
you  do.  She  says  she's  lost  ten  pounds  already. 
She  worked  all  that  next  day  and  half  the  night 
again.    But  she  did  get  her  contract." 

"Contract?"  dazedly  repeated  Zoe. 

"Going  to  Hollywood  next  week.  Three  hun- 
dred a  week,"  went  on  Julie,  imperturbably.  "I 
gather  from  her  modest  story  that  she  made 
Marigold  look  like  two  cents  and  Bush  is  crazy 
about  her.  Thinks  she's  the  greatest  screen 
comedienne  ever  born.  Going  to  star  her  in  a 
series  of  domestic  comedies — just  a  small  cast." 

Zoe  was  so  startled  by  this  news  that  she  ate 
breakfast  in  a  trance,  paying  no  heed  to  Julie's 
confidences  concerning  Mr.  Wagenstein,  who,  it 
seems,  was  not  so  bad  after  all,  and  very,  very 
rich,  and  anyway  you  can't  be  so  particular  when 
you  haven't  been  out  to  dinner  for  eight  days. 

"Margot!"  Zoe  kept  exclaiming  wonderingly. 
That  was  the  way  things  happened.  And  only 
three  weeks  ago  Margot  had  been  on  the  verge 

245 


246  WHITHER 

of  suicide.  It  was  a  strange,  strange  city,  this 
New  York.  Perhaps  Life  had  something  won- 
derful to  surprise  her,  Zoe,  with  very  soon.  Per- 
haps she  would  meet  some  one  who  would  set  her 
to  writing  plays. 

Coming  down  to  reality,  Zoe  saw  that  there 
was  a  small  heap  of  bills  on  her  tray.  There  was 
Mrs.  Home's  ominously  brief  bill — "70.00"  for 
five  weeks'  lodging,  breakfast  and  dinner.  There 
was  a  bill  addressed  to  Fania  Tell  from  a  depart- 
ment store,  but  suggestively  underlined  by  Fania 
and  turned  over  to  Zoe.  One  hundred  and 
thirty-two  dollars — coat,  shoes,  hat  and  gloves. 
There  was  a  little  note  from  Enna,  still  at  the 
Art  Club,  gently  reminding  Zoe  that  she  owed 
her  five  dollars  and  Enna  would  really  like  to 
have  it  that  day  as  she  was  a  little  short  this 
week. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Zoe,  on  the 
verge  of  tears. 

Julie  was  putting  on  her  small  purple  toque 
and  turned  around. 

"Come  to  Paris  with  me  and  we'll  run  away 
from  all  our  creditors,"  she  suggested.  "Or 
perhaps  you  can  get  a  job  as  model  down  at 
Fleurice's.  Still,  you're  only  five  feet  two, 
aren't  you?  Fleurice  likes  them  five  feet  six. 
Don't  worry  about  your  bills,  Zoe.  Look  at 
Margot.  She  was  in  as  deep  as  you  are,  and  here 
she  falls  into  a  piece  of  luck  that  will  put  her 
on  her  feet  all  at  once.    And  how  about  Amy 


WHITHER  247 

Bruce?  The  Times  says  she  opened  in  a  new 
play  in  Atlantic  City  and  has  knocked  'em  all 
cold.  'Superb  emotional  actress!'  New  York 
all  agog  waiting  for  the  play  to  get  here.  See 
what  her  emotions  did  for  her,  when  directed  the 
right  way." 

"Perhaps  you  have  to  learn  how  to  abandon 
yourself  to  your  feelings — good  or  bad — in  real 
life,  before  you  can  do  it  convincingly  on  the 
stage,"  said  Zoe,  dryly.  "But,  Julie,  that  was 
sheer  luck  with  those  two  girls.  And  luck  just 
doesn't  happen  to  me." 

"Of  course  it  can,"  Julie  said,  and  picked  up 
her  gloves.  "I  must  run  along.  I'm  lunching 
with  David  today,  by  the  way.  That's  Monsieur 
Wagenstein." 

Zoe  pushed  her  breakfast  tray  to  one  side,  and 
reached  for  her  bedroom  slippers.  She  regarded 
her  image  pessimistically  in  the  mirror.  Nine 
dollars  and  ninety-five  cents  for  that  silly  orchid 
nightie  with  the  lace  bertha.  It  was  pretty — 
of  course  it  was  pretty!  But  she  had  no  busi- 
ness with  pretty  things.  Nothing  nice  ever  hap- 
pened to  her — like  three  hundred  dollars  a  week, 
for  instance — that  would  justify  such  extrava- 
gances. If  she  ever  got  a  job  again,  she  would 
certainly  save  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  rain  or 
shine.  Ten,  at  least.  Then,  after  she'd  worked 
several  years  she  would  have  saved — about  a 
thousand  dollars.  Bah!  Might  as  well  spend  it 
and  be  happy. 


248  WHITHER 

If  she  could  only  get  a  job!  But  if  she  did, 
how  could  she  pay  back  the  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  out  of  the  miserable  little  salary 
she  would  get?  Zoe  mechanically  went  to  the 
dresser  and  selected  Julie's  best  imported  soap 
for  her  bath,  and  a  large  jar  of  "4711"  bath 
salts.  She  went  into  the  bathroom,  and  slid 
meditatively  into  the  tub,  after  pouring  half  the 
bottle  into  the  water. 

If  there  were  only  some  one  she  could  talk 
things  over  with.  If  Kane  would  call  her,  for 
instance.  He  would  understand  and  would  help 
her  know  what  to  do.  But  he  no  longer  belonged 
in  her  life.  He  would  be  kind  to  her  if  she  went 
to  him,  but  she  could  scarcely  do  that  after  all 
this  fuss  at  the  office.  Even  if  he  had  the  divorce 
which  Maisie  had  spoken  of. 

"I'll  have  to  see  if  I  can  get  a  job  filing  for  a 
while — at  least  through  the  summer,"  Zoe 
thought  drearily.  "At  least  I  could  make  eight- 
een dollars  a  week  to  keep  me  from  owing  any 
more.  It  really  doesn*t  matter  what  you  do, 
when  you  can't  do  the  thing  you  want  anyway. 
And  I  never  will  be  a  playwright,  anyway.  No 
one  expects  me  to,  so  no  one  will  be  disap- 
pointed." 

Filing.  To  have  to  say  she  was  a  file  clerk 
instead  of  a  writer.  Zoe  winced,  but  Fania's 
bill  before  her  drove  her  on.  She  dressed  hur- 
riedly and  went  over  to  the  subway.  At  the  gate 
she  realized  that  she  had  not  a  single  penny  to 


WHITHER  249 

her  name.  She  had  owed  and  paid  Maisie  the 
money  Margot  had  obtained  for  her  at  the 
agency.  She  turned  around  and  came  up.  After 
all  it  wasn't  so  far  to  Thirty-first  Street  where 
the  filing  agency  was.  She  could  walk  it  in  an 
hour  or  so. 

Zoe  started  walking  down  Broadway.  i\t 
Fifty-seventh  Street  she  switched  to  Fifth  Ave- 
nue.   Its  spaciousness  soothed  her. 

She  looked  mechanically  in  the  windows  of 
the  art  galleries.  In  Kraushaar's  was  a  Gifford 
Beal  showing.  Across  the  street  in  Ehrich's  win- 
dow was  a  Zuluaga.  In  Wildenstein's  she  saw  a 
Picasso  exhibition  announced. 

"I  could  go  and  enjoy  any  of  those  things  as 
much  as  if  I  had  a  million  dollars,"  Zoe  medi- 
tated with  a  little  spurt  of  exultation.  "I  could 
walk  in  and  say,  'What  line!  What  color! 
What  clouds ! '  and  no  one  would  guess  I  didn't 
have  the  fare  home." 

No  one  could  take  from  her  the  satisfaction 
of  having  had  a  complete  breakfast,  too,  she 
gloated,  or  of  wearing  smart  clothes,  or  of  being 
young!  So  long  as  one  had  those  things,  New 
York  could  do  very  little  to  you. 

She  walked  along  more  buoyantly,  but  it 
struck  her  suddenly  that  after  all  Mrs.  Home 
could  put  her  out.  What  could  she  do,  then? 
Julie  would  help  her.  Maisie  would  help  her. 
Panic  seized  her  as  the  thought  came  that  they 
would  not  help.     She  could  not  blame  them, 


250  WHITHER 

either.  Julie  needed  her  money  for  clothes,  and 
Maisie  didn't  have  any  funds  to  spare.  Margot 
was  away  and  Fania — oh,  no,  one  couldn't  go  to 
Fania.  If  Mrs.  Home  should  put  her  out! 
Why,  she  hadn't  even  carfare  to  go  anywhere. 
She'd  rather  starve,  of  course,  than  appeal  to  her 
family. 

Looking  up  and  seeing  Fifth  Avenue  converg- 
ing into  a  tiny  point  far  down,  Zoe  felt  fright- 
ened. It  was  as  if  the  two  great  walls  of  high 
buildings  were  slowly  pressing  her  in,  and  each 
step  brought  her  nearer  to  her  certain  doom. 
Way  down  there — it  must  be  around  Thirty-first 
Street,  they  would  have  her  squeezed  to  a  quiv- 
ering pulp  between  their  great  stone  fronts. 

Desperation  seized  Zoe.  She  began  to  run, 
dodging  through  little  groups  and  around  star- 
ing, mink-clad  women. 

"Hold  on  there,"  a  voice  cried. 

It  was  Allan  Myers. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  half-sobbed  Zoe,  brushing 
her  eyes  as  if  to  rid  them  of  nightmare.  "I 
never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  one." 

Allan's  thin,  sardonic  face  twisted  into  a  smile. 

"If  I  thought  that  was  true,"  he  said,  half- 
speculatively.  "You  looked  scared,  Adorable. 
And  why  haven't  you  let  me  come  and  take  you 
out  somewhere?" 

"I  was  always  out  when  you  came,"  Zoe 
answered,  almost  truthfully.  She  realized  the 
necessity  of  putting  up  a  bluff.    It  would  never 


WHITHER  251 

do  for  any  one  from  her  old  office,  even  a  sympa- 
thetic person  like  Allan,  to  guess  her  straits. 

"I — I'm  just  seeing  about  a  position  and  I'm 
in  a  frightful  rush." 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  running  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue  "    Allan's  voice  was  half  mocking.    "I 

thought  you  had  given  up  your  job  to  free- 
lance. Hoped  you  would  take  a  studio  in  the 
Village — preferably,  of  course,  in  my  house — 
and  write  your  plays  there.  I  suppose  you'll  do 
a  few  potboilers  before  you  really  get  going." 

Zoe  looked  at  him,  startled.  It  was  queer  that 
she  had  not  thought  of  doing  that  very  thing.  It 
was  what  was  expected  of  would-be  writers. 
She  was  disappointed  in  herself  that  the  idea  had 
not  occurred  to  her.  Perhaps  she  could  do  it 
even  now. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  Allan  vaguely. 
"That's  probably  what  I  shall  do.  But  this  job 
is  really  such  an  opportunity " 

"Afraid  of  the  open  sea,  eh?"  he  taunted. 

She  was  annoyed  at  his  mocking  air,  as  if  she 
did  not  have  the  stuff  that  writers  were  made  of. 
After  all,  he  must  have  misgivings  about  his  own 
ability  to  sail  the  open  sea  or  he  wouldn't  be 
keeping  his  advertising  job  so  long.  She  decided, 
however,  not  to  return  his  challenge.  She  sum- 
moned a  pale  smile. 

"I  must  fly  now,  really.  Perhaps  I'll  see  you 
again.    Good-by." 

Allan,  she  felt,  stood  looking  after  her  rather 


252  WHITHER 

oddly  as  she  hurried  down  the  street.  She  was 
glad  he  had  broken  up  her  nightmare.  Now  the 
street  ahead  seemed  tranquil,  lazily  mobile,  not 
at  all  fearful.  Zoe,  relieved,  ran  on  to  the  filing 
agency. 

It  was  a  dull,  depressed  office,  as  dull  as  filing, 
and  Zoe's  spirits  fell  as  soon  as  she  had  entered. 
How  ghastly  to  be  a  file  clerk  with  nothing  else 
to  look  forward  to!  She,  at  least,  could  look 
forward  to  becoming  a  famous  writer  some  day. 
She  didn't  have  to  clerk  forever. 

The  woman  in  charge  of  the  agency,  plump 
and  overchinned,  was  not  encouraging. 

"Our  clients  usually  insist  on  a  diploma  from 
the  Filing  School  as  well  as  experience,"  she 
said,  looking  over  Zoe  disapprovingly,  "and  you 
say  you  have  no  letters  of  recommendation  from 
your  last  place.  The  only  thing  I  could  offer 
would  be  a  place  at  the  Novelty  Gas  Fittings  Co. 
at  fifteen  dollars  a  week." 

"No,"  said  Zoe  sickly,  "I  couldn't  take  that. 
I — perhaps  I'll  let  you  know  later." 

"A  dollar  deposit,  if  you  wish  us  to  look  up 
something  for  you,"  said  the  woman.  "Of  course 
April  is  always  a  bad  time  to  hunt  work,  but  we 
could  find  something." 

"I'll  drop  in  later  and  register,"  Zoe  said,  and 
flew  out.  She  stumbled  blindly  down  the  steps. 
Fifteen  dollars  a  week  was  scarcely  a  salary  even 
for  Albon.  It  was  discouraging,  too,  after  one 
had  condescended  to  consider  an  inferior  posi- 


WHITHER  253 

tion,  to  be  rejected  as  unqualified.  What  a  hor- 
rid person  that  woman  was!  Zoe  was  not  sure 
what  response  she  had  expected,  but  she  had 
thought  the  agency  would  show  surprise  that 
such  an  obviously  clever  girl  should  stoop  to  a 
file  clerk's  position. 

"Really,  Miss,"  she  had  pictured  the  agency 
head,  considerate  and  awed,  "you  will  pardon 
my  saying  so,  but  a  girl  with  your  education  and 
talent  should  have  an  editorial  position.  I'm 
afraid  filing  is  far  below  your  capabilities." 

"Never  mind,"  Zoe  imagined  her  own  cynical 
response,  "I  have  to  eat.  I'll  take  your  position." 

How  horrid  that  woman  had  been!  Zoe 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  looked  un- 
certainly down  Thirty-first  Street.  She  could 
go  into  some  office  and  demand  a  position. 
She  could — then  Allan's  words  recurred  to  her. 
After  all,  she  was  getting  nowhere  tramping 
around  looking  for  work.  Why  shouldn't  she,  so 
long  as  she  was  destined  to  starve  anyway,  starve 
for  the  sake  of  art?  She  would  live  on  bread  in 
a  garret  like  Dariel  did,  and  write  mad,  beautiful 
things.  She  would  stay  up  all  night  and  write 
plays  and  novels.  She  wouldn't  even  look  for  a 
job.  Now  was  her  chance  to  start  her  dreamed- 
of  future. 

Zoe's  depression  lifted.  She  felt  exalted.  She 
thought  of  how  in  centuries  to  come  people 
would  read  of  her  decision  right  there  on  Thirty- 
first  Street. 


254  WHITHER 

"Think  of  it,"  they  would  say,  "the  great  Zoe 
Bourne  sought  a  position  as  a  mere  file  clerk  and 
they  rejected  her." 

"But  I  don't  even  have  money  to  advance  on  a 
garret,"  Zoe  remembered  miserably,  "I  don't 
even  have  a  nickel  for  bread.  And  I  couldn't 
just  leave  Mrs.  Home's  when  I  owe  her  and 
Fania  so  much.    They  would  arrest  me!" 

But  she  could  go  home  this  very  moment  and 
start  writing.  Julie  would  be  away.  She  would 
begin  with  a  play  and  it  would  be  about  just 
such  an  interesting  type  as  herself.  She  rushed 
home,  almost  forgetting  to  pity  herself  for  being 
obliged  to  walk. 

Julie  came  in  from  her  party  with  Wagenstein 
at  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She 
was  surprised  to  find  the  light  in  her  room  still 
on,  and  Zoe,  fully  dressed,  bending  over  her 
desk.    There  were  papers  scattered  all  about. 

"Oh,  you  did  get  a  job  then?"  asked  Julie, 
bewilderedly. 

Zoe  lifted  a  red,  tear-drenched  face  and  shook 
her  head  mutely. 

Julie  picked  up  a  page  on  which  a  single  line 
was  written — "Cast  of  Characters."  She  glanced 
at  another  with  the  same  solitary  line. 

"Then — you're  writing  a  play?" 

Zoe  nodded  and  then  burst  into  tears  again. 

"But  oh,  Julie,  I  haven't  a  thing  to  say!"  she 
sobbed.    "I  haven't  a  thing  to  say!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Zoe  had  looked  forward  with  a  dull,  fascinated 
anticipation  to  that  evening  with  Al  Schuler. 
She  had  not  told  any  one  about  it  and  she  did  not 
think  of  it  consciously  herself.  It  was  something 
big  and  bat-like  that  covered  all  her  thoughts. 
She  wondered  a  little  why  she  was  doing  it,  how 
she  had  the  courage.  There  was,  of  course,  the 
discouragement  and  irritating  poverty  of  the  last 
few  weeks;  not  the  going  without  new  dresses 
half  so  much  as  the  going  without  annoying, 
maddening  little  things,  like  bus  rides,  postage 
stamps,  newspapers,  the  groveling  business  of 
borrowing  dimes  and  quarters  for  subway  fares. 
Those  were  the  things  that,  heaped  up,  made 
blacker  despair  than  any  matter  of  a  new  dinner 
gown  or  going  without  lunch. 

There  was  an  empty,  drifting  feeling  that  her 
disappointment  in  Cornell  had  given  her.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  cause  for  doing  anything,  no 
cause  for  not  doing  anything.  She  would  drift 
with  whatever  tide  came.  She  had  an  idea  of 
what  might  happen  if  she  had  dinner  with  Al 
Schuler  in  his  suite  at  the  Biltmore.  There  was 
really  no  reason  for  her  going.  But  then  there 
was  no  reason  for  her  not  going.  And  at  least 
it  would  mean  that  something  was  happening 

255 


256  WHITHER 

in  her  life,  something  to  distract  her  from  her 
feeling  of  utter  futility. 

Zoe  felt  no  excitement  as  she  dressed  to  go. 
Julie  was  out  with  Wagenstein  and  she  looked 
reflectively  at  her  wardrobe.  Julie's  costumes 
were  more  suited  to  the  occasion  than  her  own 
simple,  tailored  things.  Sleek,  black  things, 
lacy,  delicate  things — that  was  the  sort  of  stuff 
to  wear.  There  was  no  use,  though,  in  trying  on 
Julie's  things.  They  were  all  too  large  except 
her  hats.  She  would  wear  that  little  black  hat 
with  the  feathers  dipping  down  on  the  side  and 
splashing  against  her  cheek. 

She  regretfully  put  on  her  blue  velvet  dress. 
It  was  very  smartly  cut,  but  the  starched  white 
collar  and  cuffs  gave  it  a  look  of  boyishness  and 
severity  that  Zoe  felt  was  incongruous  with  the 
occasion.  It  should — oh,  certainly  it  should 
have  been  black,  clinging  satin,  with  a  flash  of 
jet  over  white  shoulders. 

Six-thirty.  He  was  sending  his  own  limousine 
for  her  at  seven.  She  should  have  a  billowy 
velvet  and  ermine  evening  wrap  to  throw  over 
that  slinky  black  costume  of  her  imaginings;  to 
lean  softly  back  among  the  cushions  of  his  lim- 
ousine and  feel  silkily,  fragrantly  content.  In- 
stead Zoe  ruefully  drew  on  her  new  coat — very 
modish,  but  with  a  suggestion  of  tailored  swag- 
ger which  was  not  in  harmony  with  the  evening. 
She  laid  it  on  her  bed  and  went  into  Maisie's 
room  to  look  in  Maisie's  better  illumined  mirror. 


WHITHER  257 

Maisie  was  out.  As  usual  she  had  left  her  stock- 
ings soaking  in  the  lavatory  bowl  and  her  office 
dress  in  a  collapsed  little  ring  on  the  floor,  just  as 
she  had  stepped  out  of  it. 

Maisie's  mirror  had  a  light  which  Julie  dis- 
covered was  the  only  one  in  the  house  which 
would  reveal  how  successful  one's  make-up 
would  be  under  the  handicap  of  brilliant  arti- 
ficial light  or  daylight.  Now  Zoe  saw  that  she 
could  use  a  lipstick  to  advantage.  More  rouge, 
too.  Funny  how  foolishly  immature  she  looked. 
She  had  a  ridiculous  notion  that  Schuler  would 
say,  "My  dear  child,  you'll  never  do  at  all. 
You're  simply  not  suited  to  the  part.  That's  all." 
She  should  be  lusciously  curved  and  womanly 
looking  for  tonight.  It  was  annoying  to  look 
like  a  fresh,  wholesome  young  athlete  instead  of 
a  sophisticated  woman  of  the  world.  Clematia 
called  her  name  from  the  hall  and  with  another 
dab  of  rouge  Zoe  went  down. 

In  front  of  the  house  was  a  long  green  limou- 
sine, upholstered  in  gray  velvet.  A  chauffeur 
in  green  livery  opened  the  door  for  her.  Zoe 
experienced  the  sad  happiness  that  comes  to 
people  who  are  doing  something  which  appears 
to  be  very  magnificent,  but  which  they  know  to 
be  empty  and  meaningless.  The  world  did  not 
care  what  became  of  her;  therefore,  why  should 
she?  There  was  no  one  on  earth  who  would  be 
concerned  if  she  were  to  become  Al  Schuler's 
mistress. 


258  WHITHER 

"I'm  trying  to  tempt  myself.  I  really  don't 
feel  in  the  least  tempted,"  Zoe  thought,  as  she 
was  borne  luxuriously  along  in  the  car.  She 
looked  at  the  chauffeur's  square  green  back. 
Think  of  having  a  chauffeur  at  your  disposal. 
One  would  have  to  bear  the  advances  of  an  old 
fool  like  Schuler,  though,  in  return.  Still,  there 
would  be  something  martyrlike  in  that  which  a 
woman  could  really  enjoy.  It  was  much  more 
appealing  to  be  discontented  in  jewels  and  furs 
than  to  be  cheery  and  brave  in  calico.  Women 
enjoyed  it  much  more.  Zoe  rather  thought  she 
would — Julie  would  be  surprised  when  she  found 
out. 

The  car  was  sliding  to  the  curb  before  the 
hotel  and  Zoe  got  out.  She  went  into  the  side 
entrance  and  walked  around  to  the  desk  to  send 
up  her  name  to  Schuler.  Her  feet  seemed  to 
belong  to  some  one  else.  This  was  not  Zoe 
Bourne,  surely,  who  was  walking  through  the 
hotel  lobby  preparatory  to  meeting  an  elderly 
roue  in  his  chambers.  This  was  not  the  Zoe 
Bourne  who  had  washed  dishes  in  a  dingy,  gas- 
lit  kitchen  in  Albon.  This  was  not  the  Zoe 
Bourne  who  had  sought  happiness  in  Bill  Cor- 
nell's arms.  This  was  a  motion  picture,  perhaps, 
and  she  was  only  seeing  herself  as  the  heroine. 
One  does  that. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  asking  for  Schuler 
frightened  her.  It  was  Zoe  Bourne's  voice.  Why 
had  she  no  feeling,  beyond  a  detached  curiosity 


WHITHER  259 

about  the  whole  thing.  She  walked,  trance-like, 
to  the  elevator.  There  was  no  reason  for  her  to 
go  up.  She  did  not  want  to  dine  with  Al  Schuler. 
She  could  go  back  right  now,  if  she  chose.  It 
seemed  outrageous  that  one  should  yield  to 
temptation  without  even  being  tempted. 

His  room.  She  stopped.  There  was  nothing 
to  prevent  her  from  turning  around  now  and 
going  home.  Zoe  raised  her  hand  and  knocked. 
Thedoor  opened  and  Schuler  pulled  her  gayly  in. 
His  few  gray  hairs  were  combed  back  smoothly 
and  his  pink  face  bore  the  evidence  of  a  recent 
massage.  He  wore  a  brocaded  silk  dressing 
gown  of  vivid  blue,  which  Zoe  admitted  was 
handsome  enough. 

This  was  his  living  room  and  it  was  sumptuous 
in  rich,  dark,  mature  furnishings.  In  front  of 
the  large  window  a  table  was  laid  for  two  and 
the  glint  of  silver  and  glass  was  alluring.  A  huge 
bowl  of  red  roses  was  in  the  window  and  on  the 
table  a  corsage  of  violets  lay  at  her  plate.  It 
was  plain  that  Schuler  believed  that  beauty  was 
the  best  payment  for  beauty.  That  this  was  no 
ordinary  dinner  engagement  with  an  ordinary 
little  ingenue  was  evident  from  his  manner  in 
which  there  v/as  a  subtle  air  of  suppressed 
excitement. 

This  surely  was  not  Schuler,  the  great  theatri- 
cal manager,  for  whose  smile  a  thousand  girls 
would  sell  their  souls.  Zoe  was  disappointed. 
She  was  not  even  excited.    It  was  as  if  she  were 


260  WHITHER 

watching  the  affair  from  some  point  of  vantage 
instead  of  actually  taking  a  leading  part  in  it. 
It  was  a  cursed  literary  sense  of  course.  Seizing 
every  thrill  and  tearing  it  to  bits  to  see  what 
composed  it. 

Schuler  was  not  playing  up  to  the  role  of 
seducer,  either.  He  was  nothing  but  an  old 
gourmet,  who  ate  and  drank  with  elderly  enjoy- 
ment, and  used  women  for  his  dessert.  If  he 
could  only  stay  fixed  in  her  mind  as  the  great  Al 
Schuler,  then  Zoe  felt  she  might  be  equal  to  the 
occasion.  But  he  persisted  in  appearing  to  her 
merely  as  an  old  man  who  was  becoming  increas- 
ingly ridiculous  by  his  servile  flattery  and  sugary 
compliments. 

It  was  odd  what  one  did  without  having  any 
feeling  about  it  one  way  or  the  other.  You 
always  thought  of  girls  making  a  vast  decision  to 
go  straight  or  to  go  wrong,  and  then  following 
out  their  decision  conscientiously,  with  earnest- 
ness in  the  first  case  and  reckless  defiance  in  the 
latter.  Whereas,  it  was  probably  true  that  they 
didn't  have  any  thought  about  it  one  way  or  the 
other.  The  moment  just  came  when  things 
seemed  unimportant.  Yet  Zoe  confessed  that 
she  would  prefer  to  have  felt  a  mighty  tempta- 
tion. If  it  had  been  Cornell  at  one  time,  for 
instance.  Suddenly  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
thought  of  Christopher  Kane.  His  gray,  whim- 
sical eyes. 

The  waiter  came  in  and  removed  the  dishes 


WHITHER  261 

when  they  had  finished  the  dinner.  He  folded 
up  the  little  table.  He  put  the  chair  in  place. 
He  pushed  back  the  table.  Zoe  watched  him, 
waiting.  Schuler  watched  him,  waiting.  They 
both  knew  that  the  moment  they  were  alone  he 
would  kiss  her.  The  door  finally  closed  on  the 
waiter. 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  you  started 
out  in  the  theatrical  business,"  said  Zoe,  breath- 
lessly. 

Schuler,  who  had  gotten  up  from  his  chair  as 
the  door  closed,  sat  down  again,  taken  aback. 

Zoe,  seated  in  the  chair  opposite  him,  lit 
one  of  the  cigarettes  he  had  had  sent  up.  Schuler 
looked  at  her  hungrily  and  then  gave  a  little 
laugh. 

"The  history  of  my  life,  my  dear,  eh?"  he 
said,  and  Zoe  was  relieved  to  see  him  look  away 
from  her  ankles. 

"I've  heard  it  is  fascinating,"  she  added. 

"Well,  there's  not  much  to  tell,"  Schuler  be- 
gan, lighting  a  cigar  and  crossing  his  legs.  "I 
came  here — let  me  see — June  of  1878.  Before 
your  time,  eh?  Born  up  in  Vermont.  I  didn't 
have  but  three  quarters  and  a  dime  when  I  got 
here.  I.  ..I.  ..I.  ..I.  ..I.  ..I 
...  I  ...  I  ...  I  ...  I  ...  I  ...  I  ...  I" 

Zoe  remembered  the  girls  talking  over  men 
that  night  in  her  room  and  the  advice  to  keep 
your  eyes  interested  while  your  man  was  telling 
the  story  of  his  life  stuck  in  her  head.    She  was 


262  WHITHER 

idly  wondering  just  how  many  hundreds  of  I 's  it 
would  take  for  Schuler  to  tell  his  story  and  just 
what  would  happen  then.  It  was  not  pleasant 
to  be  gobbled  up  for  dessert.  He  might  have  the 
decency  to  try  to  get  acquainted  first.  Here 
was  an  old  roue  who  invites  a  girl  to  dinner  with 
fairly  obvious  intentions  and  then — Zoe  shook 
herself.  Was  there  no  escape  from  this  habit  of 
analyzing  situations?  Couldn't  she  consider 
herself  part  of  the  picture  instead  of  a  detached 
observer?  Was  there  no  feeling  strong  and 
powerful  enough  to  sweep  aside  this  abominable 
literary  impulse? 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  interspersed  Schu- 
ler's  story  with  a  suitable  number  of  "Not 
really s"  and  "Imagine  !s"  to  show  how  intensely 
interested  she  was.  But  he  did  finish  after  a 
time  and  Zoe,  with  a  mental  shrug,  saw  him  get 
up  and  move  softly  toward  her.  He  put  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  hear  all  about  my 
honey  girl?" 

Zoe  giggled  unrestrainedly.  Schuler's  pink 
face  was  close  to  hers  and  she  identified  the 
brand  of  his  massage  cream.  She  traced  the 
design  of  an  octopus  in  the  pattern  of  his  dress- 
ing gown.    That,  too,  made  her  smile. 

Schuler's  hand  under  her  chin  made  her  con- 
scious of  herself.  What  did  one  do,  then? 
Wasn't  it  the  thing  to  spring  up  and  throw  off 
his  vile  touch  with  a  scorching  rebuke?    But  Zoe 


WHITHER  263 

did  not  move.  She  did  turn  swiftly  as  he  bent 
down  to  kiss  her. 

"I'll  look  after  you,  Girlie,"  whispered  Schuler, 
thickly,  his  hand  clutching  her  arm.  "You  can 
have  a  nicer  place  than  this,  Honey,  a  car.  I'll 
settle  some  stock  on  you,  too,  the  minute  you  say 
the  word.  I  won't  bother  you  any.  Just  be  my 
little  pal.    Just  a  little  pal." 

Zoe  did  not  even  feel  his  lips  that  time  when 
he  kissed  her.  It  landed  somewhere  at  the  nape 
of  her  neck  where  her  bobbed  hair  curled  in. 
It  was  ludicrous  for  this  old  man  to  be  courting 
the  favor  of  a  girl  like  herself.  Julie  would  be 
different,  because  Julie  was  thoroughly  femi- 
nine and  sophisticated.  Herself — well,  she  was 
not  the  type. 

"Different  from  the  run  of  'em,"  he  whis- 
pered, leaning  over  her  chair  and  keeping  his 
hands  on  her  arms.  "Real  stuff,  this  time. 
Nothing  phony  about  you,  is  there,  Sweet?  Like 
your  eyes.  I'll  tell  you  what.  We'll  just  call  up 
your  little  roommate  and  tell  her  you've  met  a 
friend  and  may  not  be  home." 

Zoe  awakened  suddenly.  She  saw  herself  in 
a  mirror  on  the  wall — trim,  fresh,  buoyant — con- 
trasting with  Schuler 's  fishy-eyed  flabbiness. 
Her  starched  white  cuffs  and  collar  were  out  of 
place.  She  didn't  belong  here.  She  simply 
wasn't  the  type  for  the  part.    If  she  had  owned 

a  sleek  black  dress  with  jet  on  it But  even 

then  her  shoulders  were  not  the  decollete  type. 


264  WHITHER 

No,  she  simply  could  not  be  erotic  in  such  sen- 
sible clothes.  It  was  inconsistent,  and  utterly- 
impossible,  just  as  it  would  be  impossible  to  be 
sensible  in  erotic  clothes. 

"What  did  you  say,  dear?"  asked  Schuler, 
dotingly. 

Zoe  rose,  pushing  him  gently  aside. 

"I'm  sorry,  I " 

"You  have  a  headache,"  he  exclaimed  solici- 
tously.   "It  was  the  wine." 

"No,"  said  Zoe,  idiotically,  "it's  this  Buster 
Brown  collar.  It  doesn't  belong,  you  see.  I'm 
afraid  I " 

It  was  becoming  difficult  to  explain  in  the  face 
of  Schuler's  ominous,  fishy  eyes.  His  voice  was 
sympathetic  enough,  but  his  eyes  were  cold. 
He  had  paid  for  dinner  and  he  wanted  his  des- 
sert.   Zoe  stammered  a  little  confusedly. 

"If  I — I — if  I  had  a  little  whiskey,  per- 
haps  " 

She  had  seen  him  go  into  the  adjoining  bed- 
room before  to  get  the  liquor  and  now,  as  she 
saw  him  vanish  in  there  again,  murmuring  pro- 
testations of  sympathy  for  her  headache,  she 
snatched  her  hat  and  cloak  from  the  chair  beside 
her  and  moved,  catlike,  her  heart  in  her  mouth, 
to  the  outer  door.  If  it  were  locked !  She  heard 
the  tinkle  of  ice  in  a  glass  at  the  moment  her 
hand  was  on  the  knob.  She  turned  it  noiselessly, 
thank  heaven,  it  didn't  squeak,  and  was  out  in 
the  hall.    At  a  turn  in  the  hall  two  doors  away 


WHITHER  265 

was  the  staircase.  She  fairly  flew  down.  He 
might  look  down  there,  though.  Frantically  she 
stepped  into  a  partially  opened  door.  She  did 
not  even  apologize  to  the  old  man  in  shawls, 
seated  in  an  invalid's  chair,  for  bursting  into  his 
room.  Would  Schuler  follow  her?  Even  as  she 
wondered,  Zoe  heard  footsteps  hurrying  down 
the  staircase  she  had  just  left.  The  steps  went 
on  down. 

Zoe  rushed  to  the  elevator  and  caught  it  on 
the  instant.  She  was  flushed  and  dying  to  laugh 
with  the  absurdity  of  this  chase.  Schuler,  of 
course,  felt  insulted  and  outraged.  He  would 
not  see  anything  funny  in  it. 

She  was  on  the  ground  floor  now,  and  walked 
quietly  out  into  the  street.  She  wanted  to  shriek 
with  laughter.  She  wanted  to  run  breathlessly 
all  the  way  home.  But  she  walked  demurely 
along  in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings  until  she 
reached  Fifth  Avenue.  She  took  the  first  bus 
that  came  along.  She  could  transfer  at  Fifty- 
seventh  Street  anyway. 

The  bus  was  crowded.  Zoe  wanted  to  shriek 
to  them,  "Look,  people,  look!  I  have  just  run 
away  from  adventure.  I  have  just  escaped 
seduction.  Isn't  life  gorgeous?  Isn't  life 
funny?" 

But  she  did  not.  She  wondered  just  what  Al 
Schuler  was  doing  now.  She  rather  suspected 
that  he  had  simply  called  up  some  other  lady, 
one  who   didn't   wear   Buster   Brown   collars. 


266  WHITHER 

Meantime  she  changed  to  a  Riverside  bus  and 
sat  up  on  top  with  a  fat  matron  who  took  up  all 
the  seat.  She  was  amazed  at  herself  for  not 
thrilling,  in  memory,  at  her  adventure.  Instead 
she  found  herself  speculating  whether  Mrs. 
Home  had  discovered  Maisie's  unlawful  laun- 
dering in  the  wash  bowl  and  had  confiscated  the 
stockings  as  she  had  threatened.  Zoe  rather 
thought  she  had. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Zoe  had  been  avoiding  Mrs.  Home  assidu- 
ously for  the  last  few  weeks.  She  had  waited 
until  Mrs.  Home  had  left  the  dining  room  before 
she  went  into  dinner  every  night,  at  the  risk 
of  incurring  Clematia's  everlasting  contempt. 
When  she  passed  the  formal  drawing  room  on 
the  first  floor  on  her  way  out,  she  never  dared 
turn  lest  Mrs.  Home  should  be  sitting  there, 
making  out  her  endless  bills,  the  smile  glazed 
on  her  face  in  case  any  one  should  catch  her 
unawares.  At  first  Zoe  had  explained  to  Mrs. 
Home  and  assured  her  that  she  would  pay  her 
for  certain  within  the  next  two  weeks.  But 
when  the  weeks  rolled  by  and  her  daily  search 
for  a  job  seemed  more  and  more  fruitless,  she 
had  quit  explaining.  With  Fania,  it  was  dif- 
ferent. She  dared  not  avoid  her,  but  it  was 
tiresome  and  embarrassing  for  both  of  them  to 
be  everlastingly  apologizing  for  her  bad  luck. 

"I  suppose  the  store  has  been  nasty  to  her, 
too,"  Zoe  reflected.  "Won't  let  her  charge  any- 
thing more,  and  all  because  she  was  so  decent  to 
me  about  letting  me  mess  up  her  credit." 

There  was  one  faint  prospect  of  a  job,  but  Zoe 
was  afraid  to  count  much  on  it.  That  was  the 
Vanity  Box,  a  smart  weekly  journal  dealing  with 
society  and  the  arts  and  town  gossip.     Kane 

267 


268  WHITHER 

had  once  spoken  of  it  to  her  as  a  clever  maga- 
zine and  said  the  editor  was  an  old  friend  of  his. 
Zoe,  in  fine-combing  all  her  prospects,  had 
remembered  this  and  had  called  to  see  about 
getting  a  position  on  the  staff.  The  editor  was 
a  gray-haired,  charming  cosmopolite,  well  on  in 
the  fifties.  He  was  just  about  to  go  to  lunch 
as  Zoe  was  announced.  He  stood  at  his  desk, 
hat  in  his  hand,  as  she  hesitantly  approached 
him,  but  as  soon  as  she  announced  the  cause 
of  her  call  and  prepared  to  justify  her  lack 
of  qualifications,  he  interrupted  her: 

"Ah,  yes,  I  see.  Well,  why  not  lunch  with  me, 
my  dear,  and  talk  it  all  over?" 

They  had  gone  to  the  Russian  Inn  and  here, 
when  Zoe  attempted  to  "talk  it  over,"  her 
remarkable  host  delicately  but  firmly  changed 
the  subject  to  a  certain  play  which  Zoe  had  for- 
tunately seen,  but  whose  bearing  on  her  editorial 
ability  was  rather  hard  to  detect.  And  when  the 
play  was  exhausted,  Mr.  Bellaire  deftly  turned 
the  talk  to  Russian  food  and  the  merits  of  Rus- 
sian cigarettes  and  kvas  and  a  dozen  other  things, 
so  that,  when  he  suddenly  glanced  at  his  watch 
after  consuming  a  beautiful  Russian  fruit-cake, 
he  decided  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  rush  right  off.  Mr.  Mar- 
quis was  to  see  me  at  two  and  discuss  a  series 
he  is  planning  for  us." 

Zoe  gulped  down  the  last  morsel  of  her  dessert 
and  said,  disappointedly: 


WHITHER  269 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Bellaire,  you  see " 

"Charming  interview,  my  dear.  Thank  you 
so  much.  I  must  tell  Kane  about  it.  Good  day, 
Miss  Bourne." 

Zoe  disconsolately  reviewed  the  affair  for 
several  days  afterward  and  berated  herself  for 
having  been  so  distracted  from  her  purpose. 
Why,  she  hadn't  been  able  to  say  a  thing  about 
what  she  had  done  or  could  do,  or  wanted  to  do. 
She  doubted  if  he  had  even  taken  down  her 
name.  Yet,  the  fact  that  he  had  liked  her  per- 
sonally enough  to  take  her  to  lunch  was  so  much 
more  encouragement  than  she  had  had  before 
that  Zoe  hoped  for  something  quite  preposter- 
ously nice  to  result. 

She  was  tiptoeing  past  Mrs.  Home's  drawing 
room  one  afternoon  a  short  time  after  her  lunch 
with  Mr.  Bellaire,  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Home's 
artificially  sweet  voice  call  her.  Her  heart  stood 
still.  Now  it  had  come.  Mrs.  Home,  with  the 
note  of  steel  which  sometimes  crept  into  her 
saccharine  voice,  would  inform  her  that,  while 
it  almost  broke  her  heart  to  be  practical,  still 
when  some  one  could  not  pay  her  board  for 
six  weeks Dear  Miss  Bourne  would  under- 
stand, of  course. 

Zoe  turned  slowly  and  went  into  the  drawing 
room  and  up  to  where  Mrs.  Home  sat,  appar- 
ently absorbed  in  her  accounts. 

She  would  be  put  out,  of  course.  She  didn't 
know  where  she  could  get  a  room  without  paying 


270  WHITHER 

in  advance.  Even  at  the  Young  Women's  Chris- 
tian Association — which  some  of  the  girls  said 
was  quite  as  grasping  as  any  hotel — she  would 
have  to  pay  in  advance.  She  would  even  have 
to  borrow  the  carfare  from  Julie  to  get  any- 
where, without  considering  the  board  at  all. 

Mrs.  Home  turned  with  her  fixed  little  smile 
and  gave  Zoe's  hand  a  playful  little  pat. 

"Ah,  yes,  there  you  are,  my  dear.  I  haven't 
seen  much  of  you  lately,  have  I?" 

"No,  you  see "  began  Zoe,  miserably. 

But  Mrs.  Home  struck  brightly  in. 

"Having  a  hard  time  of  it,  aren't  you,  being 
out  of  work  so  long?  As  I've  always  said, 
nothing  just  wrings  my  heart — just  wrings  it, 
you  know — like  seeing  one  of  my  girls  in  trouble. 
I  was  telling  Miss  Tait  the  other  night  at  din- 
ner— you  know  she's  got  such  a  lovely  position 
now  over  at  the  St.  Agnes  Branch  of  the  Library 
— I  was  saying  that  the  girls  are  really  just  like 
my  daughters.     Of  course  Miss  Tait  is  a  little 

too  old  to  be  my  daughter "  here  Mrs.  Home 

laughed  merrily  and  Zoe  joined  feebly  in. 

"Yes,  she's  a  little  too  old  to  be  your  daugh- 
ter," she  contributed,  wanly. 

Mrs.  Home  took  up  the  point,  zestfully. 

"Yes,  there  has  to  be  an  age  limit.  Ha,  ha! 
But  Miss  Tait  is  such  a  dear,  really.  Of  course 
in  her  funny  clothes  the  girls  do  make  fun  of 
her,  and,  after  all,  you  can't  blame  them." 

"No,"  Zoe  wrung  out, 


WHITHER  271 

"And  she's  been  here  off  and  on  for  such  a 
long  time,"  went  on  Mrs.  Home.  "Yes,  Miss 
Tait,  as  I  told  her  myself,  is  one  of  my  old 
stand-bys.  Of  course,  there's  Julie.  You  like 
her  very  well,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  Julie's  wonderful,"  Zoe  agreed,  sitting 
tensely  on  the  edge  of  the  magnificent  davenport 
and  wishing  that,  if  Mrs.  Home  were  going  to 
put  her  out,  she  would  get  to  it  quickly. 

"So  popular  with  the  men,  too.  I  often  won- 
der why  so  few  of  my  girls  ever  marry.  They're 
so  attractive  and  all.  Miss  Fairbom — you 
wouldn't  remember  her,  of  course.  She  was 
here  two  years  ago  and  then  went  to  Rome  to 
study  architecture  or  something.  Miss  Fair- 
born  used  to  say — I  think  she  was  joking,  be- 
cause I  don't  think  she  meant  to  be  mean — one 
often  does  that,  you  know — say  something  that 
sounds  disagreeable  if  you  take  it  in  one  way 
and  perfectly  all  right  if  you  take  it  in  another." 

"Yes,"  Zoe  assented.  Was  there  ever  such  a 
woman?  Here  she  had  her  victim  before  her, 
ready  for  the  slaughter,  but  first  she  must  tor- 
ture her  with  a  long  lecture  on  how  much  she 
loved  the  girls  and  how  wrapped  up  she  was  in 
their  joys  and  sorrows  and,  in  short,  how  fool- 
ishly fond  of  them  she  was  to  the  great  detri- 
ment of  her  bank  account.  And  what  did  it 
matter  what  Miss  Fairborn  said  anyway. 

"I  think  so,  too,"  pursued  Mrs.  Home.  "Let 
me  see,  where  was  I?    Oh,  yes,  Miss  Fairborn — 


272  WHITHER 

too  bad  you  never  met  her.  You  two  would  have 
hit  it  off  beautifully.  She  was  so  fair  and  you're 
so  dark.  Full  of  spirit,  too,  although,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  guess  she  was  nearer  forty  than  anybody 
ever  suspected.  She  said  the  girls  thought  so 
much  of  themselves  that  they  couldn't  stand  the 
thought  of  sacrificing  their  individuality  to  any- 
body— not  even  a  man.  But  I  think  she  meant 
it  in  a  perfectly  good  way." 

"Of  course,"  perfunctorily  agreed  Zoe.  At 
least,  what  Miss  Fairborn  said  was  out  of  the 
way. 

Mrs.  Home  fixed  her  eyes  on  Zoe  for  a 
moment. 

"It  just  came  to  me  that  you  probably  owe 
the  girls  in  the  house,  as  well  as  myself,  a  lot  of 
money.  I  remember  you  never  got  an  allowance 
from  home  or  anything.  Your  salary  was  all 
you  had?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  Zoe.  Oh,  for  the  courage  to 
tell  a  beautiful  lie  about  an  expected  inheritance 
or  some  private  income.  But  you  couldn't  lie 
with  Mrs.  Home's  beady  eyes  pinning  you  down 
like  that. 

"I  don't  like  the  girls  to  owe  one  another," 
Mrs.  Home's  voice  had  an  edge  of  irritation 
now.  "Somebody  always  moves  and  then  I'm 
held  responsible.  Why,  goodness  knows.  But 
much  as  I  love  my  girls,  I  will  say  that  they  are 
the  most  unreasonable  in  a  business  way.  You 
owe  Fania  Tell  well  up  toward  a  hundred  and 


WHITHER  273 

fifty,  don't  you?  I  saw  the  bill.  You  left  it  on 
your  breakfast  tray  the  other  morning,  and  I 
knew  you  used  her  account." 

Zoe  was  becoming  indignant.  It  was  really 
none  of  Mrs.  Home's  business  if  she  did  owe 
other  people,  and,  if  she  just  wanted  to  pile  up 
all  these  things  to  give  her  an  excuse  for  putting 
her  out,  she  could  stop  right  away.  She'd  go. 
She  wouldn't  make  any  fuss.  Only  it  was  annoy- 
ing to  have  Mrs.  Home  act  like  such  an  old 
hypocrite  about  it. 

"I  must  apologize  for  looking  at  it,  but  you 
never  can  tell,"  went  on  Mrs.  Home's  hard, 
bright  voice.  "One  day  Olive  Tanhill — have 
you  met  her  husband? — old,  of  course,  but  very 
nice  and  so  fond  of  dear  Olive !  One  day  she  left 
a  perfectly  good  check  for  five  hundred  dollars 
on  her  tray  and  fortunately  Clematia  was  honest 
enough  to  return  it,  but  for  several  hours  Olive 
was  on  pins  and  needles.  Since  then,  I  always 
make  it  a  practice  to  look  over  the  things  the 
girls  leave  around,  because  you  never  can  tell 
what  they'll  leave.  And  I  do  hate  to  have  them 
lose  anything.  Mrs.  Shaw  tells  me  I  ought  to 
just  let  them  learn  a  lesson  now  and  then.  Mrs. 
Shaw  says  I'm  all  heart,  where  the  girls  are  con- 
cerned. And,  of  course,  as  I've  often  told  the 
girls,  I  barely  make  enough  on  the  place  to  buy 
clothes  for  my  back." 

"Yes,"  said  Zoe,  ironically. 

It  was  coming  now.    Conversation  was  hover- 


274  WHITHER 

ing  around  profit  and  loss,  and  the  blow  was 
about  to  fall.  Well,  Mrs.  Home  could  have 
saved  all  that  conversation.  It  was  perfectly 
plain  what  she  was  getting  at  in  her  first  sen- 
tence. 

"And  I've  been  so  interested  in  your  work, 
my  dear,  and  so  disappointed  when  you  found 
— ah — it  didn't  suit  you,  although  I  understand 
from  the  girls  that  there  was  a  little  trouble 
about  it.  Well,  you  needn't  tell  me,  of  course. 
And  you've  been  looking  so  pale  lately,  and  I 
do  hate  to  have  the  girls  worry.  Really,  Mrs. 
Shaw  says  it  worries  me  more  to  have  them 
worry  than  it  does  them.  I'm  so  sympathetic. 
And  I  knew  it  must  be  financial — but  of  course 
one  has  to  look  after  one's  own  interests " 

"Mrs.  Home,"  Zoe  put  in  desperately,  "you 
needn't  beat  around  the  bush.  I  know  you  want 
to  put  me  out,  and  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  go. 


"Put  you  out?"  cried  Mrs.  Home.  "What 
ever  put  such  an  idea  in  your  head?  I'm  simply 
asking  you  if  you  want  the  loan  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  until  you  get  on  your  feet?" 

Zoe  wondered  afterward  why  she  hadn't 
fainted  completely  away  when  she  heard  this. 
She  did  sit  for  an  instant  with  her  mouth  agape, 
staring  at  Mrs.  Home  until  that  lady  rather 
impatiently  tapped  her  check  book  and  said: 

"Well,  will  two  hundred  and  fifty  see  you 
through?    You  can  pay  me  just  when  you  see  fit, 


WHITHER  275 

you  know.  A  small  amount  now  and  then.  It 
will  settle  Fania.    If  you  need  more " 

"No — oh,  no "  gasped  Zoe.    "But  it's  too 

good  of  you.    I  ought  not  to  let  you  do  it." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Home,  proceeding  to 
write  the  check.  "Let  me  see,  is  there  a  V — oh, 
yes — B-o — u " 

After  all  there  is  nothing  like  money  to  re- 
establish one's  self-confidence.  After  Zoe  had 
divided  Mrs.  Home's  loan  among  her  creditors, 
she  began  to  feel  that  there  was  really  no  reason 
at  all  why  she  should  not  approach  Mr.  Bellaire 
again  on  the  subject  of  a  position  on  the  Vanity 
Box  staff.  It  had  been  nearly  a  week  now  since 
their  luncheon  and  something  definite  might 
have  developed  in  that  time. 

Zoe  went  down  to  the  exquisitely  furnished 
little  suite  of  offices  which  the  Vanity  Box  had 
on  Fifth  Avenue  and  sat  in  a  velvet-hung,  black 
and  mauve  reception  room  while  a  sleek,  well 
dressed  office  girl  took  her  name  in  to  Mr. 
Bellaire.  After  a  moment  the  glass-paneled 
door  of  his  office  opened  gently  and  the  girl 
beckoned  to  her. 

"How  good  of  you  to  call  again,  my  dear!" 
Mr.  Bellaire  greeted  her  warmly,  putting  his 
gold-rimmed  spectacles  in  a  monogrammed  case 
and  motioning  her  to  a  chair  beside  his  desk.  He 
pushed  aside  some  proof  which  he  was  glancing 
over  and  proceeded  to  give  smiling  attention  to 
his  caller. 


276  WHITHER 

"I  thought  you  might  have  something  for  me 
to  do  this  time,"  said  Zoe,  at  once. 

"Certainly,  my  dear — of  course,"  said  Mr. 
Bellaire,  briskly.  He  took  down  a  small  packet 
of  notes  from  a  pigeonhole  and,  removing  the 
rubber  band,  spread  them  before  Zoe.  "Here 
are  some  scraps  of  talk  about  certain  debutantes 
and  actresses,  and  exhibitions  and  that  sort  of 
thing — intimate  little  bits,  you  know,  which  I 
want  written  up  in  a  vivacious,  sophisticated 
way.  Not  malicious  or  scandalous,  understand. 
Just  intimate  and  agreeable  in  tone,  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  afternoon  tea  chatter  about  it. 
Continental  dash  about  it,  too.  Can  you  do  it 
by  day  after  tomorrow — Wednesday?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Zoe,  eagerly.  She  glanced  at 
the  notes.  "You  mean — you  mean  you're  taking 
me  on  the  staff?" 

Mr.  Bellaire  stared  humorously  at  her. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear.  Didn't  I 
mention  it  when  we  lunched  together?  Ah,  yes, 
I  remember.  I  had  to  dash  off  to  see  Don 
Marquis  about  that  series — very  adroit  they  are, 
too,  by  the  way.    I  want  you  to  see  them." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Zoe,  happily.  "And  about 
hours,  Mr.  Bellaire,  and  salary?" 

Mr.  Bellaire  waved  his  long,  tapering  hand  as 
if  to  brush  away  such  a  sordid  thought  as  mere 
money. 

"Come  in  when  you  like  and  go  when  you 
like.    Perhaps  we  can  talk  things  over  more  fully 


WHITHER  277 

later  on  in  regard  to  your  work.  I  want  this 
sort  of  thing  done  every  week.  It  will  run  a  full 
page  with  some  attractive  little  silhouettes  by 
way  of  illustration.  We'll  call  this  department 
'Five  o'clock'  or  something  like  that.  Salary? 
I  imagine — hm — fifty  dollars  a  week  is  the  usual 
thing,  I  believe.  Later  on  we'll  make  it  more, 
naturally." 

Zoe  blinked.  Fifty  dollars  a  week.  Why,  it 
was  enormous.  She  could  pay  Mrs.  Home  back 
in  less  than  three  months,  probably.  Wouldn't 
Christopher  Kane  be  pleased  when  she  told  him? 
Wouldn't  it  be  fun  talking  it  over  with  him? 

"By  the  bye,  our  mutual  friend,  Christopher 
Kane,  will  be  in  town  tomorrow,"  said  Mr.  Bel- 
laire,  once  more  putting  on  his  spectacles  by 
way  of  dismissing  Zoe.  "Tomorrow  morning,  I 
believe  he  said  in  his  wire.  I  was  beginning  to 
fear  he  wouldn't  get  here  in  time  to  sail  on  the 
Berengaria,  after  I  have  been  rushing  around 
for  the  last  week  arranging  his  passage  and 
all " 

"Is — is  Mr.  Kane  going  abroad?"  asked  Zoe, 
bewilderedly. 

"Sailing  Friday,"  said  Mr.  Bellaire,  calmly. 
"He  has  made  a  permanent  London  connection, 
you  know.  Very  good  thing,  too,  I  understand. 
Leaves  a  large  part  of  his  time  free  to  write 
those  fantastic  stories  of  his.  Until  tomorrow, 
then,  Miss  Bourne." 

He  waved  her  out,  politely  but  unmistakably, 


278  WHITHER 

and  Zoe  was  obliged  to  ask  the  girl  in  the  recep- 
tion room  just  where  her  desk  was  to  be  and 
other  important  things  which  Mr.  Bellaire  had 
so  blandly  ignored.  As  she  went  home,  though, 
she  was  thinking  about  Kane  and  what  Mr. 
Bellaire  had  said.  She  was  a  little  hurt  that 
Kane  had  not  written  of  his  plans  to  her.  It 
was  as  if  he  did  not  consider  her  close  enough 
to  be  informed  of  his  personal  affairs. 

Zoe  was  disappointed,  too,  to  think  that  he 
was  leaving  just  as  she  was  starting  on  this  new 
and  entertaining  work.  It  would  have  been 
so  pleasant  to  talk  it  over  with  him  and  discuss 
ways  of  using  it  as  a  wedge  to  the  editorship 
of  a  more  important  magazine.  He  would  be 
proud  of  her,  if  he  knew  she  was  to  review  art 
exhibitions  and  concerts  even  in  a  desultory  way. 
He  would  feel  that  she  was  making  use  of  the 
things  he  had  taught  her.  She  remembered, 
regretfully,  of  the  plans  they  had  made,  in  a 
casual  way,  of  course,  for  this  coming  year.  He 
had  said  something  vaguely  about  getting  season 
tickets  for  the  Metropolitan  and  for  the  Theater 
Guild.  It  would  have  been  a  glorious  year.  And 
then  here  he  was  running  off  to  England. 

Crossing  Forty-second  Street,  Zoe  ran  into 
Bill  Cornell  and  Allan  Myers.  Allan  had  spoken 
before  Zoe  realized  that  Bill  was  with  him. 

"This  is  great.  I  was  afraid  we  should  never 
see  you  again,"  exclaimed  Bill,  shaking  her  hand 
vigorously  and  taking  in  Zoe's  prosperous  look- 


WHITHER  279 

ing  costume  with  an  approving  eye.  Zoe 
gathered  from  his  manner  that,  for  some  absurd 
reason,  he  didn't  want  Allan  to  know  he  had  any 
connection  with  her  except  their  former  office 
friendship.  "Actually,  we  lost  that  cold  cream 
account  after  you  left.  Doesn't  that  make  you 
gloat?" 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  it,"  laughed  Zoe.  And 
then,  because  she  wanted  to  tell  somebody  about 
her  good  luck,  she  told  them  about  the  Vanity 
Box  position,  and  Allan's  eyebrows  went  up. 
Zoe  looked  away  quickly,  lest  she  read  more  of 
the  faint  disdain  in  his  eyes.  Why  should  she 
starve  herself  in  an  attic  when  she  could  write 
pleasantly  and  profitably,  if  less  artistically,  on 
the  Vanity  Box?  He  needn't  look  as  if  she'd 
sold  her  birthright. 

"Congratulations!"  Bill  said,  very  plainly 
impressed.  He  held  on  to  her  hand  for  an 
instant  and  Zoe  was  surprised  that  there  was 
not  the  slightest  thrill  in  the  touch  of  his  hand. 
It  was  a  big,  comfortable  hand — that  was  all — 
and  she  wondered  how  that  little  electric  bond 
between  two  people  could  be  destroyed  by  a 
simple  process  of  reasoning. 

"Crazy  to  see  you — very  soon,"  Bill  said,  in 
a  low  tone.    Zoe  merely  smiled,  impenetrably. 

She  went  on,  after  Bill's  handshake,  feeling  as 
Julie  had  confessed  to  feeling  after  an  affair 
had  gone  cold — flat  and  vapid.  She  was  dis- 
appointed  with   herself,   too.     She,   who   had 


280  WHITHER 

prided  herself  on  being  capable  of  great  love, 
had  loved  lightly  and  then  let  it  slide  un- 
heeded, out  of  her  life.  No  matter  if  Bill  were 
just  blatantly  physical,  she  should  have  loved 
so  deeply  that  she  would  not  have  seen  his 
imperfections.  If  he  had  not  returned  her  love, 
she  would  have  had  the  glorious  experience  of 
unrequited  love  and  gone  on  loving  till  she 
died.  That  was  the  sort  of  person  she  imagined 
herself  to  be.  And  yet  she  was  just  like  Julie 
and  the  rest  of  the  girls — shallow  and  fickle, 
unable  to  stay  in  love  with  one  man  for  the 
silly  reason  that  he  was  so  normal. 

Still,  any  woman  with  a  mind  could  not  stay 
in  love  with  a  man  who  was  nothing  more  than 
a  handsome  animal — not  for  a  long  time,  at 
least.  She  couldn't,  for  instance,  marry  him,  and 
she  couldn't  be  splendid  friends  with  him,  as  it 
was  possible  to  be  with  a  man  like  Kane.  Of 
course,  Zoe  admitted,  she  would  stay  in  love  so 
long  as  there  was  that  electric  bond  between 
them,  no  matter  what  his  intellect  might  be. 
But  the  paradox  of  the  thing  was  that  without 
an  intellectual  rapport  the  thrill  could  not  exist. 
A  kiss  from  Cornell  now  would  be  nothing  more 
than  a  healthy,  cousinly  affair. 

Zoe  sighed  and  then  remembered  the  Vanity 
Box  and  what  the  future  held.  She  smiled  con- 
fidently. She  was  through  with  men.  At  last 
she  was  secure  of  her  future.  She  was  perfectly 
capable  of  making  her  own  happiness,  inde- 


WHITHER  281 

pendent  of  men.  It  didn't  matter  whether  any- 
one loved  her  or  not.  The  important  thing  was 
to  have  a  good  job,  and  enjoy  the  nice  things  of 
life  the  way  Julie  did. 

She  would  tell  Christopher  Kane  all  about  her 
new  philosophy  when  she  saw  him  tomorrow, 
as  she  surely  would.  It  was  really  too  bad  he 
was  going  away  now  that  she  had  begun  to 
like  him  so  much.     . 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Kane  did  not  look  her  up  the  next  day  or  the 
next,  to  Zoe's  intense  disappointment,  absorbed 
though  she  was  in  the  details  of  her  new  job. 
She  knew  that  Mr.  Bellaire  was  to  see  him  that 
night  at  his  hotel  and  she  was  a  little  aggrieved 
that  he  had  not  sought  her  out  before  any  one 
else. 

"I'm  going  to  work  frightfully  hard  this  year. 
There  isn't  anything  else  for  me  to  do,  now  that 
Bill  doesn't  interest  me  any  more  and  Christo- 
pher Kane  is  leaving,"  she  said,  as  she  lounged 
on  Julie's  bed  that  evening,  while  Julie  and 
Fania  engaged  themselves  in  the  rejuvenation  of 
Julie's  old  evening  gown. 

"You'll  find  somebody  else,"  said  Julie,  pains- 
takingly sewing  on  a  metal  shoulder-strap. 
"You'll  probably  meet  all  sorts  of  new  men  down 
at  the  Vanity  Box.  You  know,  Fania,  Zoe's 
going  to  save  up  and  go  to  Paris  with  me. 
Fleurice  has  postponed  it  till  August  now,  so 
Zoe  has  plenty  of  time  to  collect  the  fare." 

"Don't  be  too  sure,"  said  Zoe,  lazily. 

"Of  course  you're  coming,"  Julie  went  on, 
unperturbed.  "You  ought  to  come,  too,  Fania. 
Of  course  I  suppose  you'd  want  to  bring  Ralph 

along " 

282 


WHITHER  283 

"Fania  had  better  stay  here  and  marry 
Ralph,"  recommended  Zoe.  "That's  what  fian- 
ces are  for." 

Fania  frowned  at  the  mention  of  Ralph. 

"I'd  go  abroad  if  I  had  the  money.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  Ralph  would  do  if  I  actually  went.  I'm 
positive  the  dear  boy  would  not  rush  the  wed- 
ding to  keep  me  from  going." 

"You're  a  little  fool,  Fania,"  declared  Julie. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Zoe?  Here  she  is,  engaged 
to  a  man  for  eight  years  and  the  wedding  day  is 
just  as  far  away  as  it  ever  was.  He  knows  he's 
got  you,  Fania.  He  knows  you'll  be  right  here 
just  as  long  as  he  wants  you  to  be,  and  after  he's 
got  through  having  a  good  time." 

"He  isn't  having  a  good  time,"  protested 
Fania.  "I  know  he's  extravagant — that  is,  for 
anybody  who  says  he  can't  afford  to  get  married 
yet.  But — but  he's  not  altogether  to  blame.  At 
least,  he  wanted  to  get  married  right  away  when 
we  were  first  engaged.  But  I  wanted  to  come  to 
New  York  and  have  a  career,  for  a  little  while, 
so  I  kept  putting  things  off  until  he  got  so  he 
never  mentioned  getting  married  at  all.  The 
last  year  or  so  I  put  in  a  hint  occasionally  when 
I  feel  a  little  blue,  you  know,  but  he  never  bites. 
Just  says,  'No  use  trying  to  marry  on  less  than 
$7,500.'  " 

"Well,  I'd  leave  him  cold,  Fania,"  Julie  said, 
indignantly.  "After  he's  got  through  having  a 
nice  bachelor  time,  he'll  come  around  and  say 


284  WHITHER 

it's  time  for  the  wedding.  Only  you'll  be  about 
forty  by  that  time  and  he'll  be  no  richer  than  he 
was  in  the  first  place.  By  then  you'll  have 
turned  down  a  lot  of  good  chances  like  this 
MacNair  person." 

"Harry  MacNair  wanted  to  marry  me  right 
off,"  said  Fania,  thoughtfully.  "I  was  surprised. 
You  remember  when  I  met  him — that  day  I 
went  into  the  importing  department  to  sketch 
some  hats.  Why,  it  hasn't  been  more  than  five 
weeks  ago." 

"Like  him,  Fania?"  Zoe  questioned,  inter- 
estedly. 

"Oh,  Harry's  all  right.  But  why  should  I 
marry  any  one  yet?  I  have  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing perfectly  wonderful  is  going  to  happen  in 
my  art.  Being  in  a  department  store  is  just  a 
stop-gap.  I  expect  to  do  big  things — and  very 
soon.  So  why  should  I  pass  up  these  wonderful 
opportunities  in  my  career  and  marry?  Oh,  I 
suppose  if  I  packed  up  and  went  to  Ralph,  he'd 
marry  me  all  right.  But  marriage  is  such  an 
admission  of  defeat." 

"Which  opportunities  are  you  referring  to, 
Fania?"  Julie  asked,  with  a  hint  of  delicate 
malice  in  her  voice. 

Fania  reddened. 

"Maybe  I  haven't  had  any  yet,  but  there's 
likely  to  be  something  around  the  corner." 

"Unless  it's  a  round  corner,"  said  Julie,  "in 
which  case  you're  probably  turning  all  the  time 


WHITHER  285 

without  knowing  it,  and  without  finding  any- 
big  opportunities,  either." 

"What  do  you  really  want  most  of  all  to  do, 
Fania?"  Zoe  asked. 

"Why — er — to  be  an  artist,"  said  Fania,  dis- 
concerted. "Paint  landscapes  and — er — well, 
the  usual  thing." 

Having  a  faint  doubt  as  to  Fania's  artistic 
abilities,  Zoe  said  nothing.  Fania  turned  to  her 
sharply. 

"How  about  you,  Zoe?  What  do  you  intend  to 
do  the  rest  of  your  life?  Stay  on  the  Vanity 
Box?7' 

It  was  Zoe's  turn  to  be  disconcerted.  After 
all,  what  was  the  thing  she  wanted  most  in  the 
world  to  do?  What  was  her  goal?  She  cer- 
tainly wasn't  getting  any  nearer  to  being  a  play- 
wright by  going  on  the  Vanity  Box.  She  liked 
the  Vanity  Box,  and  perhaps  she  might  work  up 
to  Mr.  Bellaire's  position  in  twenty  years,  but 
the  acquiring  of  an  agreeable  position  was  not 
a  goal.  One  ought  to  plan  to  achieve.  Bring- 
ing up  children  was  an  achievement,  but  of 
course  that  was  not  to  be  in  her  scheme  of 
things.  Writing  a  great  play  was  an  achieve- 
ment, too.  But  in  her  heart  Zoe  knew  she  would 
never  write  a  great  play. 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  I  wanted  to  write 
plays,  but  I  don't  seem  to  be  doing  it.  And  I 
don't  suppose  I'll  be  any  nearer  to  it  in  ten  years 
than  I  am  now,"  she  answered  gloomily.  "Any- 


286  WHITHER 

way,  we're  all  of  us  too  mediocre  to  do  any- 
thing. Anything  really  big,  I  mean.  We  just 
putter  along  trying  to  make  steel  skyscrapers 
out  of  a  bunch  of  pasteboard  blocks  and  a  toy 
shovel.    Inclination  isn't  genius." 

"What's  the  difference?"  yawned  Julie.  "We 
have  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  our  blocks  and  our  toy 
tools.  We'd  probably  get  the  backache  if  we 
did  try  to  do  anything  big." 

"I  want  to,  though.  I  still  want  to,"  said  Zoe, 
wistfully.  "I  want  to  burn  myself  out  doing 
something  tremendous.  But  I  never  will.  I'll 
drone  along  just  like  everybody  else.  Of  course 
I  like  being  on  the  Vanity  Box,  but  that  isn't 
the  sort  of  thing  one  plans  for  a  future." 

"The  only  thing  the  matter  with  you,  Zoe,  is 
that  you're  in  love,"  said  Julie,  dismissing  the 
subject  of  futile  careers.  "It  always  makes  you 
so  pessimistic." 

Zoe  sniffed  scornfully. 

"That's  all  off,  thank  you." 

"With  Bill,  certainly,"  said  Julie,  "but  it's 
Kane  now.  It  probably  has  been  all  along  only 
you've  been  so  set  on  your  handsome  Cornell.  I 
don't  see  why  you  didn't  hang  on  to  him,  any- 
way, but  that's  your  own  affair." 

"You  really  think  I'm  in  love  with  Christopher 
Kane?"  demanded  Zoe  in  astonishment. 

"Certainly."  Julie's  assurance  was  very  dis- 
agreeable. "That  is  why  you're  so  sour  on  the 
subject  of  careers  and  futures.     It  makes  you 


WHITHER  287 

cross  to  feel  dependent  on  some  one  else  for  your 
happiness  instead  of  being  able  to  go  and  get  it 
by  yourself.  It  makes  you  realize  how  puny  you 
are.    I  know." 

Zoe  studied  her  hands  a  little  bewilderedly. 
Of  course  she  was  not  in  love  with  Christopher 
Kane.  She  liked  him  and  she  admired  his  mind 
and  his  character  tremendously.  She  was  per- 
fectly sure  that  some  day  he  would  be  great. 
She  loved  to  be  with  him,  too,  and  it  was  curious 
the  way  she  had  missed  him  all  those  weeks  he 
had  been  away.  But  that  was  not  love.  Love 
was  more  agonizing — the  way,  for  instance,  that 
she  had  once  felt  about  Bill  Cornell.  To  be  sure, 
that  had  not  lasted  more  than  a  few  months,  but 
it  did  bear  more  resemblance  to  the  real  passion 
than  her  feeling  about  Kane.  Why  Kane — in 
the  first  place  he  had  always  sedulously  avoided 
any  relation  of  that  sort  between  them.  Per- 
haps if  he  truly  loved  some  one  he  would  be  more 
impetuous. 

Thinking  about  Kane,  Zoe  recreated  his 
image  in  her  mind.  She  had  wanted  to  see  him 
again.  Perhaps  he  would  sail  without  even 
saying  good-by  to  her.  No,  he  would  not  do 
that.  She  could  not  imagine  him  doing  anything 
that  might  hurt  her  feelings.  She  looked  up. 
Fania  had  left  the  room. 

"A  little  miffed  at  the  way  we  jibed  at  her 
opportunities,"  Julie  explained  in  a  whisper. 
"She  thinks  that  while  it's  perfectly  natural  that 


288  WHITHER 

we  should  feel  discouraged  about  our  futures, 
hers  is  a  different  matter." 

Maisie  opened  the  door  at  that  moment. 

"Do  you  like  the  new  job?"  she  asked,  sit- 
ting down  beside  Zoe.  "The  Vanity  Box,  I 
mean." 

Zoe  started  to  answer  and  then  Maisie  sud- 
denly remembered  what  had  brought  her  in. 

"The  boy  downstairs  told  me  to  give  you 
this  note.    I  almost  forgot." 

Zoe  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read: 

"Dear  Little  Zoe: 

"I  sail  Friday.  Can't  we  have  tomorrow  after- 
noon together?  The  Biltmore  at  one,  if  you  can 
come. 

"C." 

Zoe  jumped  up  and  snatched  her  hat  and  coat 
from  the  closet  and  dashed  out. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Zoe?"  called  Julie. 

"Just  walking  up  the  Drive  for  a  few  min- 
utes," murmured  Zoe.  She  ran  down  stairs  and 
out  to  the  street.  It  was  a  cold  night  for  April, 
and  a  chill  wind  came  up  from  the  river,  but 
Zoe  strode  warmly  along,  her  coat  half  open  and 
her  hands  ungloved.  The  stars  shone  frostily 
and  the  tugs  on  the  river  sent  little  unwinking 
gleams  across  the  water.  Zoe  walked  swiftly, 
almost  running,  and  she  felt  glowingly  content. 

"Dear  little  Zoe,"  he  had  said,  "Dear  little 
Zoe." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Zoe  met  Kane  at  one.  She  was  startled  at  the 
leap  in  her  heart  when  her  eyes  caught  sight  of 
his  tall,  familiar  figure  in  the  crowd.  He  came 
toward  her  buoyantly,  and  at  the  gladness  in  his 
keen  gray  eyes  Zoe  gave  a  little  contented  sigh. 
She  clung  to  his  hand  for  a  minute,  speechless 
with  sudden  pleasure  at  his  nearness.  They 
drifted  through  lunch  and  then  wandered  out 
through  the  Grand  Central  Station. 

"You  knew  about — about — you  knew  that  I 
am  free?" 

Zoe  nodded,  a  little  embarrassed. 

"It  means  a  great  deal  to  me,"  Kane  said 
gravely.  "I  was  beginning  to  fear  the  thing 
could  never  be  arranged,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
our  differences  were  perfectly  plain  to  both  of 
us.    However,  that  chapter  is  closed  now." 

He  talked  of  his  new  work  and  of  his  hopes  of 
London. 

"It  isn't  advertising,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  glad. 
Advertising  was  stimulating  for  a  while.  It's 
always  gratifying  to  an  essentially  literary  man 
to  find  that  he  can  handle  a  commercial  job  as 
well  as  a  born  business  man.  But  it  palls  after 
a  while.  Representing  this  magazine  in  London, 
on  the  contrary,  will  put  new  zest  in  things. 
There  will  be  the  thrill  of  London,  in  the  first 

289 


290  WHITHER 

place — old  coffee  houses,  gloomy  book-shops. 
Of  course  I  have  very  few  friends  there." 

"You  will  write  to  me  occasionally?"  asked 
Zoe. 

"Of  course,"  said  Kane  quickly. 

They  had  aimlessly  wandered  into  the  station 
and  Zoe  looked  about  at  the  hurrying  crowds  of 
people  and  the  porters  laden  with  luggage. 

"Let's  go  somewhere,"  she  suggested. 

"Wonderful  idea,"  approved  Kane.  "Isn't  it 
strange  how  a  station  can  inspire  you  with  such 
terrific  wanderlust?" 

He  took  a  place  in  line  at  a  little  window  and 
Zoe  tugged  his  arm. 

"Where  to?"  she  whispered. 

Kane  studied  the  bulletin  board. 

"Does  it  matter?  Irvington,  Hastings,  Grey- 
stone.    Let's  go  to  Tarrytown." 

The  train  for  Westchester  County  left  almost 
immediately  and  they  were  on  it  before  Zoe 
thought  with  compunction  that  after  all  it  was 
Kane's  last  day  and  he  might  want  to  finish  up 
his  packing. 

"Everything  packed,"  Kane  assured  her. 
"Had  it  packed  before  I  went  West  and  have 
had  no  occasion  to  touch  the  trunk  since.  Be- 
sides I  want  to  take  another  look  at  Sleepy  Hol- 
low. I  may  take  root  in  London,  you  know,  and 
never  see  the  place  again.  And  I've  always 
wanted  to  walk  up  there  with  you.  You'd  like 
it." 


WHITHER  291 

The  train  slid  out  of  the  Grand  Central  and 
glided  through  upper  Manhattan  and  through 
the  country.  Kane  and  Zoe  sat  quite  silent,  as 
if  merely  being  in  each  other's  company  was  too 
perfect  a  condition  to  be  marred  by  speech.  Zoe 
had  a  sensation  of  sliding  over  a  delightful  preci- 
pice. She  tried  to  collect  her  reasoning  faculties 
and  remind  herself  that  this  was  only  a  casual 
excursion  with  a  casual  friend — but  it  was  no 
use.  She  was  too  breathlessly  happy  to  think  of 
it  as  anything  less  than  a  stupendous  adventure. 
They  passed  the  series  of  delectable  little  musty 
villages  leading  to  Tarrytown,  as  quaintly  com- 
plete as  if  no  great  skyscrapers  had  ever  cast 
their  shadows  near. 

"Can  you  believe  that  tomorrow  you  will  be 
gone?"  asked  Zoe,  presently.  "Tomorrow  is  as 
far  off  up  here  as  the  moon.  I  don't  think  they 
have  any  tomorrows — just  yesterdays." 

At  Tarrytown  they  got  out  and  walked  up  a 
sleepy  little  street  and  up  a  hill  in  the  direction 
of  the  Hollow.  The  air  was  sparkling  and  fresh. 
No  one  was  about. 

"We  can  take  the  old  aqueduct  road,"  Kane 
suggested,  "providing,  of  course,  that  you  aren't 
wearing  high  heels.  It  goes  through  to  Irving- 
ton  and  Dobbs  Ferry  and  two  or  three  of  the 
other  little  places  that  belong  in  this  group. 
Exactly  the  road  to  take  if  you're  with  the  right 
person." 

"And  we  will  take  it?"  said  Zoe  slyly. 


292  WHITHER 

"At  once,"  answered  Kane,  unhesitatingly. 

Down  the  shaded,  old  little  road  they  walked, 
past  houses  which  had  declined  from  Colonial 
manors  to  the  veriest  tenements,  but  with  the 
leisurely  glamour  of  age  about  them.  From  a 
queer  old  place  which  had  been  strangely  rejuve- 
nated by  a  cement  porch,  a  little  girl  ran  out  and 
stared  at  them  curiously.  Here  was  an  old 
garden  with  vines  climbing  over  the  trim  white 
picket  fence,  and  roses  and  larkspur  and  sweet 
peas  and  nasturtium  growing  in  meticulously 
arranged  groups  within. 

They  were  the  only  living  persons  on  the 
street,  and  it  seemed  to  Zoe,  as  they  walked, 
that  they  would  find  the  true  dwellers  in  the 
tangled  graveyard  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There 
they  stopped  for  a  while,  studying  the  worn  old 
tombstones  with  their  quaint  Dutch  epitaphs. 
It  was  a  dream,  thought  Zoe,  that  she  was  here 
in  this  ancient  Arcady  with  Christopher  Kane. 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

Kane  glanced  down  at  her,  interrogatively. 

"I  was  only  thinking  about  you,"  she  said, 
slowly.  "You  have  so  many  queer  little  doors 
that  open  into  such  strange,  lovely  places.  I 
wish " 

"What,  Zoe?"    He  looked  away,  half  smiling. 

She  finished  in  a  little  incoherent  rush. 

" — that  you  were  going  to  stay.  Only,"  she 
added,  hastily,  "that  is  impossible,  of  course — 
like  most  wishes." 


WHITHER  293 

She  was  very  happy.  She  had  meant  to  tell 
him  all  about  the  Vanity  Box,  as  they  picked 
up  the  aqueduct  trail,  but  it  suddenly  seemed 
unimportant. 

Kane  was  happy,  too.  He  walked  along, 
whistling,  thrusting  an  arm  under  her  elbow  on 
the  muddy  patches  and  helping  her  through  turn- 
stiles. Zoe,  stealing  a  glance  at  him,  thought 
how  nice  his  lean  dreamer's  face  was,  with  the 
arresting  gray  eyes.  She  was  surprised  that 
she  had  never  considered  his  appearance  more. 
He  was  good  looking  in  a  quiet,  aristocratic  sort 
of  way.  Looks  didn't  really  matter  between 
them,  though.  With  Bill  Cornell  she  had  always 
wished  desperately  that  she  were  as  pretty  as 
Julie,  because  she  knew  it  was  so  important  to 
him.  But  Christopher  Kane  liked  her  because 
she  was — well,  because  she  was  herself.  Zoe 
took  his  arm,  on  an  impulse,  and  then  voiced  her 
thoughts. 

"Do  you  mind  if — if  people — I  mean  girls — 
aren't  pretty,  Christopher?"  She  felt  herself 
flushing  a  little  as  she  used  his  name.  It  sent  a 
warm,  intimate  glow  through  her.  Kane  poked 
his  cane  at  a  dandelion  patch  and  did  not  look 
up  as  he  answered: 

"I  worship  beauty." 

"Oh!"  Zoe's  voice  sounded  woeful,  and 
Kane,  after  a  surprised  glance  at  her,  looked 
away. 

"Which  is  just  another  way  of  saying  that 


294  WHITHER 

you  are  beautiful,"  he  added,  in  so  low  a  tone 
that  Zoe  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears. 

She  dared  not  trust  her  voice  again,  lest  the 
pounding  of  her  heart  drown  it  out.  He  thought 
she  was  beautiful!  She  wasn't,  of  course.  But 
if  he  really  thought  she  was,  it  meant — it  must 
mean Zoe's  heart  sang. 

"So  old  Bellaire  is  going  to  let  you  review  for 
him!"  Kane  was  matter-of-fact  again,  and  Zoe 
pouted,  "I  knew  you  could  do  it." 

"It  isn't  being  a  great  playwright,  though," 
Zoe  said,  slowly.    "It's  just  a  compromise." 

"Do  you  still  want  to  write — creative  stuff, 
I  mean?  Is  that  still  your  dream?"  Kane  asked 
abruptly. 

Zoe  was  silent  for  a  while,  considering. 

"It's  all  so  muddled,"  she  said,  finally.  "I  do 
and  I  don't.  It  isn't  of  first  importance  any 
more.  I  don't  want  to  if  I  have  to  sacrifice 
youth  and  love  and  life  for  it." 

"I'm  disappointed  in  you,  Zoe,"  Kane  told 
her,  half  in  earnest. 

Zoe,  trying  to  keep  in  step  with  his  swift,  easy 
stride,  defended  herself  breathlessly. 

"But  don't  you  think,  Christopher "  again 

that  foolish  little  thrill  over  a  mere  name,  "that 
people  have  a  sort  of  thermometer  in  them  that 
tells  them  whether  it's  worth  the  price — whether 
they  really  have  the  immortal  stuff  in  them?" 

"Perhaps,"  Kane  reluctantly  admitted.  "Yet, 
I  don't  know.     Witness  our  own  Christopher 


WHITHER  295 

Kane.  He  has  sacrificed  much  for  his  problem- 
atical genius,  and  here  he  is  at  thirty-two  no 
nearer  fame  than  he  was  fifteen  years  ago." 

"But  I'm  sure  of  your  genius,"  Zoe  said 
vehemently.  "Oh,  I  know  you  will  become  great. 
I  know  that.  It's  unmistakable.  But  something 
inside  me  tells  me  I  haven't  the  stuff  worth  fight- 
ing for.    I  was  destined  for  something  less." 

"Or  greater — perhaps,"  Kane  said,  in  a  curi- 
ous tone. 

Then  he  changed  the  subject. 

They  walked  on,  Zoe  a  little  unhappy  at  the 
ease  with  which  Kane  kept  their  conversation 
pleasantly  impersonal.  She  wanted  him  to  talk 
about  himself,  his  tastes,  his  plans  for  London. 
Perhaps  he  really  didn't  like  her  well  enough  to 
confide  in  her.  It  was  strange  that  he  had  never 
touched  her  hand  or  even  looked  as  if  he  wanted 
to  kiss  her.  Perhaps  she  attracted  him  mentally 
and  not  at  all  physically!    Ghastly  thought! 

"Oh,  dear!"  Zoe  exclaimed  aloud. 

"What  is  it?"  Kane  asked,  quickly,  and  Zoe 
guiltily  began  to  talk  of  something  else.  They 
walked  on  to  Irvington,  Kane  agreeably  dis- 
coursing on  books  and  genius  in  general  and  Zoe, 
rosy  and  silent,  consumed  with  a  shameful  wish 
that  Christopher  would  kiss  her  before  he  went 
away. 

A  New  York  train  was  due  in  Irvington  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  Kane,  after  a  regretful  glance 
at  the  clock,  decided  that  they  dared  not  wait 


296  WHITHER 

for  a  later  one,  since  he  had  some  affairs  to 
attend  to. 

They  boarded  the  train,  Zoe  with  a  lingering 
glance  backward  at  the  lovely,  shadowed  road 
down  which  they  had  come. 

"The  last  time!"  she  told  herself  with  a  sense 
of  defeat.  "He  probably  will  never  come  back 
and  I  couldn't  ever  walk  there  with  any  one 
else." 

She  gulped  down  tears  and  sat  down — her 
eyes  looking  out  of  the  window.  Kane  was 
looking  thoughtfully  out  the  other  window  and 
did  not  notice  Zoe  blinking  angrily  to  keep  from 
crying.  He  was  sitting  so  close  to  her  now,  and 
tomorrow  he  would  be  gone  forever.  She  would 
plunge  into  the  Vanity  Box  work.  What  a  put- 
tering sort  of  thing  it  seemed  now!  Even  if  she 
were  to  write  and  become  famous,  what  of  it? 
Christopher  Kane  would  be  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world. 

One  thing  and  one  thing  only  was  important. 
It  leaped  at  her  and  blinded  her  to  everything  in 
the  whole  world.  She  wanted  Christopher  Kane ! 
She  wanted  Christopher  Kane!  Tomorrow  he 
would  go  away  and  she  would  die.  She  couldn't 
bear  it. 

"I'll  have  to,"  she  told  herself  savagely.  "He 
doesn't  want  me.  I  mustn't  let  him  guess.  I 
couldn't  have  him  know  when  he  doesn't  care 
that  way." 

Kane  turned  to  her  as  the  train  hurried  on. 


WHITHER  297 

"I'm  glad  we  had  that  little  time  together 
before  I  went,"  he  said,  somberly. 

Zoe  nodded  chokily.  Ah,  if  she  could  only  be 
suave  and  poised  like  Julie  or  Fania  or  Margot! 
After  Christopher  went  away  perhaps  she  would 
learn  to  control  her  emotions  and  be  very  cool 
always. 

"You  will  go  on  and  write  your  plays,"  he 
pursued.  "You  have  fire.  That's  what  an  artist 
should  have." 

"The  Vanity  will  keep  me  busy  enough,"  Zoe 
said,  with  a  studied  brightness.  "Things  look 
much  different  to  me  now  than  when  I  first  came 
to  New  York.  It  isn't  necessary  to  be  famous, 
I  find.  And  I  have  nothing  to  write  about.  I 
just  want  to  live." 

"But  Zoe,  my  dear,  I  want  you  to  go  on  and 
have  your  career,  the  things  you've  always 
dreamed  of."  Christopher,  with  blessed  absorp- 
tion, ignored  the  half-dozen  passengers  in  the 
coach  and  turned  Zoe's  hot  face  sharply  to  his. 

"Zoe,  do  you  think  I'm  going  away  for  noth- 
ing? I  won't  have  it!  You're  to  work  and  write 
and  become  the  great  Zoe  Bourne — just  as 
you've  always  dreamed!  And  nothing  is  to  come 
in  your  way.  You  mustn't  let  it!  Stick  to  your 
dreams,  Zoe,  please.  If  I  could  help  by  staying 
here,  I  would,  but  if  I  should  stay  near  you " 

Zoe,  wide-eyed,  stared  into  Christopher's 
burning  eyes,  his  suddenly  drawn  face. 

"If  you  should  stay "  she  breathed. 


298  WHITHER 

"I  would  steal  you  for  my  own  selfish  dreams," 
he  said,  savagely.  "I  am  so  abominably  selfish 
— so  weak,  Zoe,  dear — that  I  couldn't  let  you 
work  out  your  own  brave  little  destiny.  I  want 
to  pick  you  up  and  put  you  in  mine.  I'm  going 
away  before  I  spoil  everything  for  you.  Why, 
my  dear,  I  can't  even  hear  your  voice  without 
wanting  to  kiss  you " 

"Oh,"  Zoe's  voice  was  weak  with  wonder,  "did 
you  feel  that  way,  too?" 

She  saw  Kane  stare  incredulously.  Then, 
oblivious  of  every  one,  she  felt  his  lips  rushing  to 
hers,  his  hands  covering  hers. 

"Sweetheart " 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"But,  Zoe,  how  could  you  tell  so  soon?"  Julie 
kept  insisting.  She  and  Fania  and  Maisie  were 
collected  in  Zoe's  room  that  night,  ostensibly 
for  the  purpose  of  helping  her  pack.  But  the 
shock  of  her  news  seemed  to  have  paralyzed 
them,  for  they  sat  huddled  on  Julie's  bed,  watch- 
ing Zoe  work  over  her  trunk. 

"Only  last  night — and  dozens  of  other  times 
when  I've  teased  you,  you've  declared  up  and 
down  that  you  weren't  in  love  with  Christopher 
Kane,"  Julie  went  on.  "This  very  morning  you 
denied  it.  And  at  six  o'clock  the  same  day  you 
come  home  with  a  wedding  ring " 

"That  part  was  sudden,  wasn't  it?"  laughed 
Zoe,  dumping  a  drawerful  of  handkerchiefs  into 
the  trunk.  "But,  don't  you  see,  Julie,  I  was 
really  fighting  this  all  the  time?  He  always 
treated  me  in  such  a  nice,  courteous  way,  that 
I  couldn't  think  he  was  in  love  with  me,  even 
when  I  was  depending  on  him  most.  It's  going 
to  be  wonderful  having  a  husband  you  can  be 
proud  of.  Even  with  Bill,  I  wanted  to  tell  Chris- 
topher about  him  all  the  time.  I  was  so  sure 
he  would  understand  and  explain  why  I  was  so 
infatuated  with  Bill,  even  when  I  was  half 
ashamed  of  his  stupid — oh,  his  stupid  normalcy, 
if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

299 


300  WHITHER 

"I  don't,  but  let  it  go,"  Julie  answered. 

Zoe,  her  black  hair  standing  on  end  in  her 
excitement,  and  her  olive  cheeks  flushed  scarlet, 
tore  from  bureau  to  trunk  and  from  closet  to 
trunk. 

"I  knew  all  the  time  he  was  mad  about  you," 
Maisie  said,  placidly.  She  was  running  tape 
through  all  of  Zoe's  lingerie.  "He'd  sit  at  his 
desk  and  watch  you  all  the  time  you'd  be  talking 
to  Bill  Cornell.  And  every  time  you'd  be  work- 
ing and  run  your  hand  through  your  hair  he'd 
smile.  If  you'd  only  asked  me  about  it  sooner, 
dearie,  I  could  have  had  the  thing  settled  months 
ago,  and  saved  you  all  this  rush." 

"This  was  exactly  the  time  for  it,"  Zoe  re- 
torted. "Before  today  would  have  been  too 
soon  and  after  today  would  have  been  too  late." 

"You're  lucky  that  you  knew,"  Julie  said, 
slowly.  Her  face,  under  the  golden  hair,  was 
pale  and  tired,  and  when  she  saw  her  eyes  in 
the  mirror  she  looked  away,  for  they  were  old, 
discontented,  cheated  eyes.  Zoe's  marriage 
seemed  to  have  crystallized  her  own  life  and  her 
own  future,  and  it  seemed  suddenly  a  shallow, 
tinkling  thing. 

"How  about  your  wonderful  new  job?"  Fania 
inquired.  "Just  when  you're  at  the  very  door 
of  things,  Zoe.  I'm  not  saying  you're  making  a 
mistake,  but  you  are  clever  and  it  did  look  as 
if  you  were  going  to  have  a  career." 

Zoe  gave  an  impatient  little  laugh. 


WHITHER  301 

"Oh,  I'm  just  like  the  rest  of  you.  All  I  want 
is  to  be  happy.  And  the  instant  I  was  with 
Christopher  today,  I  knew  what  my  happiness 
was  and  I  took  it.  That's  all."  She  struggled 
to  fit  a  drawer  of  shoes  into  her  trunk  and  then 
went  on,  "Mr.  Bellaire  was  awfully  decent.  He 
wished  us  luck  and  I'm  to  do  a  monthly  foreign 
letter  for  him.  It  will  pay  back  Mrs.  Home, 
you  see,  and  we'll  be  quite  poor,  I  suppose." 

Fania  looked  at  her  wrist  watch.  It  was  far 
after  midnight. 

"I'm  not  helping  a  bit,  so  maybe  I'll  run  on  to 
bed.  It  depresses  me  to  see  you  so  happy. 
Might  as  well  admit  it." 

"Oh,  Fania,  I  wish  you "  Zoe  began,  im- 
pulsively. 

"I  know,"  Fania  nodded.  "You  wish  I'd 
follow  your  lead.    Well,  who  knows?" 

She  went  out  on  tiptoe  lest  she  waken  Mrs. 
Home  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  Maisie  went 
on  sleepily  with  her  mending  of  Zoe's  scanty 
wardrobe. 

"I  don't  think  this  is  exactly  what  you'd  call  a 
steamer  outfit,  Zoe,"  she  observed  dryly,  "but 
it  will  get  by  providing  you're  seasick  the  whole 
time." 

"Maisie!"  Zoe  protested.  "Anyway,  what 
could  I  do?  We  have  to  be  aboard  the  ship 
before  the  shops  open.  And  even  if  I'd  had  any 
money  I  couldn't  have  found  time  today.  Chris- 
topher is  going  to  buy  me  things  in  London.  He's 


302  WHITHER 

going  to  get  me  a  russet  chiffon  with  trails  of 
flame-color  and " 

"When  the  thing  you  really  need  is  a  good 
serge  dress,"  Julie  broke  in,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Zoe,"  Maisie  said,  timidly,  her  mousy  head 
bent  over  her  mending,  "do  you  suppose  my  mil- 
lionaire will  ever  turn  up  again?  You  know  I 
think  he  did  sort  of  remember  me." 

"I'm  positive  he  will,  Maisie.  If  in  your  heart 
you  really  want  him,  he  will  come.  Things  do 
happen  that  way." 

"Life  has  reduced  itself  now  to  the  simple 
business  of  finding  husbands,"  Julie  complained, 
"according  to  your  new  code,  Zoe.  I  suppose 
you'd  recommend  it  for  me,  too,  even  if  I  were  to 
be  another  Bernhardt!" 

Zoe  refused  to  commit  herself,  but  began 
wedging  in  her  hats. 

"At  least,  I  don't  want  you  to  take  that  hor- 
rible old  Wagenstein  person,"  she  assured  her,  at 
length.  "You  needn't  take  him  on  my  account, 
Julie.  Oh,  Julie,  please — please  come  to  Paris 
before  you  get  engaged  to  him." 

"I  don't  know  about  Paris,  now,"  Julie  said, 
meditatively,  "I'm  rather  interested  in  a  new 
man  now.  Do  you  remember  the  one  I  smiled 
at  the  night  at  Mollat's,  when  I  broke  off  with 
Alphonse?  The  nice,  ugly  one  I  told  you  about? 
I  ran  into  him  the  other  day  and — well,  New 
York  looks  interesting  for  another  six  months." 

Zoe  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.     If  she  and 


WHITHER  303 

Julie  had  to  part — and  it  was  hard  parting  with 
Julie! — it  was  comforting  to  know  that  Julie 
wasn't  going  to  be  snatched  up  by  that  leering 
old  roue.  She  was  sending  Maisie  to  the  Vanity 
Box.  Christopher  had  suggested  that  Bellaire 
might  have  something  interesting  for  her  to  do 
and  was  certain  that  the  old  gentleman  would 
be  entranced  by  Maisie's  naive  sophistication. 
She  was  to  have  a  larger  salary,  too,  and  certain 
bits  of  reporting  to  do,  so  that  it  looked  as  if 
Maisie  was  to  have  a  career  in  spite  of  herself. 

At  dawn  Julie  dozed  off,  but  Zoe  could  not 
think  of  sleep,  even  though  her  trunk  was  at 
last  closed  and  her  two  bags  locked.  She  dressed 
herself  carefully.  The  outfit  that  she  had  bought 
on  Fania's  credit,  to  impress  prospective  em- 
ployers, was  to  be  her  honeymoon  costume.  She 
was  glad  it  was  so  becoming,  but  it  didn't  mat- 
ter much.  Christopher's  love  would  make  her 
beautiful  in  anything. 

She  heard  the  taxi  down  in  front  of  the  house 
before  seven  and  wakened  Julie  as  the  man  came 
in  to  get  her  luggage.  Mrs.  Home,  in  a  hid- 
eously flowered  purple  wrapper,  her  coarse, 
"touched"  black  hair  in  a  knob  on  top  of  her 
head,  and  her  nose  red  and  twitching  with 
excitement,  came  to  the  doorway. 

"Dear,  I'm  so  glad  for  you,"  she  said,  in  her 
hoarse,  early-morning  voice.  "As  I  always  said 
to  my  girls,  it's  love  that  makes  you  happy — not 
another  thing.    Lots  of  them  don't  see  it,  dear, 


304  WHITHER 

but  I'm  glad  you  did.  And  about  that  money — 
just  take  your  time,  you  know.  I'm  so  glad 
you're  going  to  take  care  of  it  yourself.  It's 
much  nicer  than  letting  your  new  husband  take 
it  over.  Not  but  what  he'd  be  glad  to,  but — 
I'm  really  so  glad,  dear — so  glad  and  happy." 

Zoe  flung  her  arms  about  the  lady,  unheeding 
the  cold  cream  which  Mrs.  Home  always  had  on 
as  a  charm  against  old  age. 

"I've  learned  so  much  here  with  you,"  she 
whispered. 

Mrs.  Home  cleared  her  throat  of  emotion  and 
hurried  down  the  stairs  after  the  trunk  to  make 
sure  of  its  safety.  Zoe  and  Julie  were  in  each 
other's  arms  a  moment. 

"Isn't  life  queer,  Zoe?"  Julie  said,  crying  a 
little.  "We  might  have  gone  on  like  this  to- 
gether for  years.  Only  one  or  the  other  of  us 
would  have  been  sure  to  go.  Men  spoil  every- 
thing." 

"I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Julie,"  Zoe  said, 
brokenly.  "You're  so  beautiful.  You  ought  to 
have  been  a  great  actress.  Perhaps  if  you 
worked  a  little  harder " 

"I  know,  Zoe.  But  you  can't  work  hard  for 
something  that  you're  not  sure  is  going  to  make 
you  happy.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?  I've 
failed,  but  I  don't  care  because  I  don't  think 
success  would  have  made  me  much  happier.  It's 
just  that  sometimes  you  don't  know  what  you 
want.    You  might  have  done  the  same  thing, 


WHITHER  305 

Zoe,  only — well,  you  knew  from  seeing  the  rest 
of  us  so  discontented." 

Zoe  kissed  her  silently. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  on  dancing  around, 
though,"  Julie  said,  "so  don't  worry.  If  this 
new  man  doesn't  turn  out  to  be  my  Christopher 
Kane,  I'll  go  to  Paris.  At  least  I  know  what  I 
want  now." 

Zoe  rushed  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
crisp  morning  air.  Christopher  was  waiting  for 
her  at  the  door  of  the  taxi.  He  held  out  his  arms 
and  lifted  her  bodily  into  the  taxicab. 

"You're  sure  there's  room  for  me  on  the 
steamer?"  she  demanded  anxiously,  as  they 
started  off. 

"Foolish  darling.  It's  all  fixed."  He  pressed 
her  hand.  "In  six  minutes  we'll  be  on  deck. 
Six — five — four " 

"Is  it  really  true?"  he  said,  his  lips  on  hers. 
"Is  the  world  really  so  gorgeous  as  this?" 

Zoe  rested  her  head,  like  a  drowsy  child, 
against  his  shoulder.    Life  was  so  simple. 


THE   END 


